V 


'} 


OCT  2    1920 
&00CAL  StV.V^ 


Division        O  O^ 
Section  C?96  S 


XdM 


SERMONS 


I    192( 

BY    THE    LATE 

Logical  st*3 


WILLIAM  B.  0.  PEABODY,  D.  D. 


A  MEMOIR,  BY  HIS   BROTHER. 


BOSTON: 

BENJAMIN   H.   GREENE 

124  Washington  Street. 

1849. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1848,  by 

B.   H.  Greene, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


CAMBRIDGE: 
METCALF     AND     COMPANY, 

PRINTERS  TO  THE  UNIVERSITY. 


NOTE. 

The  Memoir  of  Dr.  Peabody  down  to  the  last  year  of  his  life 
was  prepared  by  his  brother,  where  it  was  abruptly  broken  off  by 
the  writer's  death.  A  friend,  intimately  acquainted  with  both,  has 
completed  the  unfinished  memoir,  and  collected  the  notices  of  the 
brother  which  are  subjoined. 

The  Sermons  were  selected  and  printed  under  the  supervision 
of  another  of  Dr.  Peabody 's  friends.  They  were  in  type  before 
the  recent  political  convulsions  in  Europe  began,  which  must  be 
remembered  in  reading  Sermon  XIX. 

Another  volume  of  selections  from  the  writings  of  Dr.  Peabody 
will  probably  be  given  to  the  public. 
Cambridge.  December,  1843. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 
MEMOIR Vii 

NOTICES   OF   THE   REV.  OLIVER    W.  B.  PEABODY  .  .  .    CXix 


SERMON    I. 
EARNEST   DEVOTION  •  1 

SERMON    II. 
THE   SISTERS   OF   CHARITY .10 

SERMON    III. 
READY    TO   BE   OFFERED 21 

SERMON     IV. 
GROUNDS   AND   LIMITATIONS   OF   HUMAN   RESPONSIBILITY  34 

SERMON    V. 

CHRISTIAN   FORBEARANCE  .......         48 

SERMON    VI. 
VISION   OF   GOD'S   THRONE 56 

SERMON   VII. 

THE    PEACE    OF    THE    SOUL  .......         68 

SERMON    VIII. 
CHRISTIAN    SINCERITY    NOT   LIKELY    TO   GIVE   OFFENCE     .  .         81 

SERMON    IX. 
THE    TRINITY 91 


VI  CONTENTS. 

SERMON    X. 
IMMORTALITY   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS 102 

SERMON    XI. 
THE   HOUSE   OF  GOD 114 

SERMON    XII. 

THE    DISORDERED    MIND 125 

SERMON    XIII. 

PREPARATION    FOR   HEAVEN  •  135 

SERMON    XIV. 
RELIGION   AND   PHILOSOPHY .      144 

SERMON   XV. 

THE   SECRET   OF  HAPPINESS 155 

SERMON    XVI. 
OFFENCES   OF   THE   TONGUE 166 

SERMON    XVII. 
DIVINE   COMMUNICATIONS 176 

SERMON    XVIII. 

THE    APOSTLES  .  .  189 

SERMON    XIX. 
THE   ETHICS   OF  WAR 199 

SERMON   XX. 
WE   KNOW   IN   PART 222 

SERMON   XXI. 

ON    READING   WORKS   OF  FICTION 233 


ADDRESS   DELIVERED    AT    THE    CONSECRATION    OF    THE    SPRING- 
FIELD   CEMETERY  ........      245 


MEMOIE. 


MEMOIR. 


It  seems  proper  that  some  account  of  this  faithful 
minister  of  Christ  should  accompany  a  selection  from 
his  writings.  Perhaps  it  may  be  thought  that  the  task 
of  preparing  such  an  account  should  have  been  confided 
to  a  less  partial  hand  ;  but  to  obviate  this  objection  as 
far  as  may  be,  I  propose  to  draw  the  larger  portion  of 
it  from  my  brother's  correspondence  with  his  familiar 
friends,  and  from  some  of  his  discourses  which  contain 
materials  suited  to  the  purpose.  The  tenor  of  his  life 
was  very  even  and  noiseless  ;  little  diversified  by  striking 
incident,  which  gives  to  personal  history  its  usual  charm. 
But  there  was  an  evident  progress  in  his  intellectual  and 
religious  character,  to  the  very  last.  The  traits  of  that 
character  were  also  of  more  than  common  attractiveness 
and  excellence,  and  in  his  later  days  they  were  tested 
by  severe,  if  not  peculiar,  sorrows.  Perhaps  the  knowl- 
edge of  his  example  may  inspire  others  with  the  wish  to 
make  such  progress,  and  with  the  power  to  endure  with 
fortitude  afflictions  similar  to  his. 

William  Bourn  Oliver  Peabody  was  born  in  Ex- 
eter, in  the  State  of  New  Hampshire,  on  the  9th  day  of 
b 


MEMOIR. 


July,  1799.  His  father,  a  man  of  many  amiable  qualities, 
had  long  resided  there,  enjoying  much  of  the  esteem  and 
confidence  of  his  fellow-citizens,  and  happy  in  the  affec- 
tions of  a  large  family-circle.  He  was  fortunate,  also, 
in  the  instructions  and  example  of  an  affectionate  and 
religious  mother.  Both  of  his  parents  lived  long  enough 
to  see  their  care  of  him  in  infancy  rewarded  by  the 
usefulness  of  his  maturer  years  ;  his  mother,  who  at  an 
advanced  age  became  an  inmate  of  his  family,  went  not 
long  before  him  to  the  grave.  His  father  found  enjoy- 
ment in  exercising  a  liberal  hospitality,  which  brought 
the  elder  portion  of  his  family  much  into"  connection 
with  society,  and  the  society  of  his  native  place  was  un- 
usually intelligent,  cordial,  and  refined.  Nor  was  the 
beneficent  influence  of  such  a  circle  lost  on  him,  as  it  is 
very  generally  on  the  young  ;  he  was  attracted  towards 
it  by  his  native  delicacy  of  taste  and  feeling,  and  by  the 
interest  which  he  early  manifested  in  subjects  of  reading 
and  inquiry,  to  which  much  of  the  attention  of  that 
society  was  given.  Those  who  knew  him  at  this  period 
remember  him  as  a  gentle  and  retiring  boy,  engaging 
with  ardor  in  the  active  sports  of  childhood,  but  very  sel- 
dom, if  ever,  in  the  strife  by  which  they  are  apt  to  be 
attended  ;  pursuing  his  studies  with  attention  and  fidelity, 
and  performing  all  his  tasks  in  a  manner  creditable  to 
himself  and  satisfactory  to  his  instructors,  never,  in  any 
instance  that  his  friends  can  now  recall,  incurring  pun- 
ishment or  grave  censure  for  any  serious  misconduct 
or  deficiency.  Few  incidents  of  his  boyhood  are  pre- 
served ;  and  such  incidents  are  rarely  worth  remember- 
ing as  affording  indications  of  the  future  character.  But 
it  may  be  truly  said  of  him,  that  the  same  traits  of  gen- 


MEMOIR.  XI 

tleness,  discretion,  humility,  and  conscientiousness  that 
marked  the  man  were  early  manifested  by  the  child. 

Tn  the  year  1808,  at  the  age  of  nine,  he  was  placed 
by  his  father  at  the  academy  in  Atkinson,  New  Hamp- 
shire. He  was  there  an  inmate  of  the  family  of  his  rel- 
ative, the  Rev.  Stephen  Peabody,  an  excellent  and  ven- 
erable man,  whose  character  and  peculiarities  have  been 
described  by  one  who  knew  him  well,  in  a  late  number 
of  the  Christian  Examiner.  Mrs.  Peabody  was  the 
sister  of  Mrs.  Adams,  wife  of  the  first  President  Adams, 
whom  she  strongly  resembled  in  character.  Her  hus- 
band was  what  is  sometimes  called  a  clergyman  of  the 
old  school,  of  dignified  appearance  and  manners,  but 
invariably  kind,  and  even  playful.  His  sermons  were 
composed  amidst  the  boisterous  mirth  of  a  troop  of 
boys  at  his  fireside,  and  possibly  a  critical  auditor  might 
have  discerned  some  evidences  of  the  circumstances  un- 
der which  they  were  prepared  ;  but  while  he  endeared 
himself  to  the  young  by  his  unfailing  good-humor  and 
kindly  sympathy,  he  gave  them  an  example  of  unpre- 
tending goodness  which  was  not  without  a  lasting  influ- 
ence upon  their  characters.  William  remained  under 
the  charge  of  Mr.  Peabody  and  his  excellent  wife  for 
a  few  months  only.  In  the  autumn  of  the  same  year, 
he  was  admitted  as  a  student  at  the  well-known  academy 
at  Exeter,  then,  as  for  many  years  after,  under  the  care 
of  Dr.  Benjamin  Abbot,  who  still  enjoys,  in  a  holy  and 
serene  old  age,  the  love  and  gratitude  of  all  his  pupils 
who  have  not  gone  before  him  to  the  grave. 

Dr.  Abbot  was  the  friend  and  neighbour  of  William's 
father,  and  he  felt  at  all  times  a  deep  and  friendly  inter- 
est in  the  son.     He  possessed  in  an  eminent  degree  the 


Xll  MEMOIR. 

power  of  winning  the  affections  of  the  young  without 
ever  forfeiting  their  respect ;  never  mistaking  austerity 
for  dignity,  nor  suffering  the  habit  of  authority  to  betray 
him  into  anger  or  coarseness.  The  other  instructors 
were,  in  general,  young  men  who  devoted  a  year  or  two 
to  the  business  of  teaching  before  entering  upon  their 
profession.  Of  those  who  were  thus  employed  while 
William  was  a  member  of  the  institution,  some  are  yet 
living  who  have  reached  distinguished  eminence.  Among 
the  dead  may  be  named  Henry  Ware  the  younger, 
whose  talent  and  religious  excellence  were  then  as  ob- 
vious to  his  friends  as  they  have  since  become  to  all. 
Under  the  tuition  of  such  men,  the  academy  well  de- 
served the  reputation  which  it  has  for  many  years  main- 
tained and  continues  still  to  bear ;  and  that  he  won  their 
regard  may  well  be  mentioned  to  my  brother's  praise. 
Without  being  deeply  interested  in  some  of  the  severer 
studies,  he  was  at  all  times  diligent  and  faithful.  He 
betrayed  an  early  inclination  for  poetry,  and  wrote  many 
pieces  which  exhibited  a  facility  of  versification  quite 
remarkable  in  one  so  young.  Among  his  efforts  was  a 
translation  of  one  of  Virgil's  Eclogues,  far  superior  in 
fidelity  and  grace  to  what  is  commonly  expected  at  the 
age  of  ten.  What  is  of  far  more  importance,  his  moral 
conduct  was  always  regulated  by  pure  and  lofty  princi- 
ple. No  instance  is  remembered  in  which  he  incurred 
the  slightest  censure  ;  his  teachers  regarded  him  as  one 
of  those  —  not  constituting,  by  any  means,  the  greater 
proportion  of  the  young  —  who  understand  the  purpose 
of  education,  and  know  how  to  estimate  its  value.  He 
was,  however,  modest,  distrustful  of  his  own  powers,  and, 
though  studious  and  attentive,  slow   to   believe  that  he 


MEMOIR.  Xlll 

was  able  to  excel.  This  was  one  of  his  marked  traits 
through  life  ;  he  always  underrated  his  own  powers, 
never  imagining  that  he  could  make  any  strong  impres- 
sion by  the  force  of  talent,  or  that  he  could  accomplish 
any  thing  except  by  earnest  industry. 

In  the  autumn  of  1813,  he  was  admitted  into  Harvard 
University  as  a  member  of  the  Sophomore  class,  the 
same  general  remarks  which  have  been  made  in  regard 
to  his  earlier  conduct  and  proficiency  are  no  less  appli- 
cable to  them  in  his  new  position.  He  did  not  aim  to 
attain  the  highest  excellence  in  the  usual  course  of  col- 
lege studies  ;  —  his  diffidence  would  not  have  permitted 
him  to  consider  it  within  his  reach  ;  —  but  his  rank  as  a 
scholar  was  always  respectable,  and  in  the  correctness  of 
his  moral  conduct  he  was  excelled  by  none.  There 
was  always  an  atmosphere  of  purity  about  him  which 
the  contagious  influence  of  evil  could  not  penetrate. 
Nor  was  he  by  any  means  inactive  or  self-indulgent. 
He  availed  himself  of  the  opportunities  for  general  read- 
ing which  the  college  library  afforded  with  equal  ardor 
and  discrimination,  and  he  thus  acquired  a  mass  of  in- 
formation which  surprised  those  who  knew  him  best,  and 
was  turned  to  good  account  in  after  life.  His  memory, 
exact  and  tenacious,  made  all  that  he  read  his  own.  In 
the  later  portion  of  life,  when  such  reading  grew  dis- 
tasteful to  him,  he  drew  upon  the  stores  of  information 
which  he  had  thus  acquired,  exhibiting  a  fulness  and  ac- 
curacy of  knowledge  which  are  not  commonly  retained 
after  an  interval  of  nearly  thirty  years.  His  example, 
as  respects  this  miscellaneous  reading,  is  not  to  be  im- 
plicitly recommended.  It  required  a  stern  intellectual 
discipline  afterwards  to  change  the  somewhat  discursive 
b* 


XIV  MEMOIR. 

habits  of  mind  which  he  had  thus  insensibly  acquired,  — 
an  effort  rarely  made  by  those  in  whose  minds,  as  in  his, 
imagination  is  more  powerful  than  reason.  His  man- 
ners were  reserved,  as  his  disposition  was  retiring,  so 
that  there  were  not  many  of  his  fellow-students  with 
whom  he  was  on  terms  of  intimacy ;  but  he  enjoyed  the 
warm  regard  of  a  few,  and  the  esteem  of  all.  It  was 
impossible  for  him  to  offend  by  vanity  or  undue  preten- 
sion ;  his  estimate  of  himself  was  always  far  lower  than 
his  friends,  or  even  those  who  knew  him  slightly,  would 
have  made.  There  were  no  incidents  in  his  college  life 
particularly  worthy  of  remembrance  ;  bu.t  it  was  evi- 
dently with  him  a  season  of  improvement,  the  fruits  of 
which  were  manifested  in  his  after  life.  The  part  as- 
signed him  at  the  annual  Commencement,  in  the  year 
1816,  when  he  received  his  first  degree,  was  an  English 
poem  ;  in  which  he  evinced  a  degree  of  taste  and  talent 
quite  equal  to  the  expectations  of  his  friends. 

Nothing  has  been  thus  far  said  in  particular  reference 
to  his  religious  character,  because,  on  such  a  subject,  the 
language  of  vague  eulogy  is  of  small  account.  From  a 
very  early  period,  it  was  the  expectation  of  his  friends 
that  his  life  was  to  be  devoted  to  the  Christian  ministry, 
because  they  felt  that  his  own  feeling  would  incline  in 
that  direction,  and  because  he  was  regarded  as  singular- 
ly fitted  for  that  office  by  those  who  knew  him  best. 
At  this  early  period,  there  was  a  purity  and  daily  beauty 
in  his  life,  and  a  freedom  from  the  faults  that  easily 
beset  that  age,  which  gave  decisive  evidence  of  the 
religious  principle  within.  But  the  age  at  which  he 
left  the  University  appeared  too  early  for  the  profitable 
commencement  of  his  professional  studies,  and  in  con- 


MEMOIR.  XV 

formity  with  the  advice  of  his  friend,  Dr.  Abbot,  he  be- 
came an  assistant  instructor  in  the  academy  at  Exeter. 
There  he  enjoyed  the  paternal  kindness  of  that  man  of  the 
beatitudes,  and  the  society  of  his  family  and  early  friends  ; 
such  society  as  no  one  could  regard  with  indifference, 
and  which  left  upon  him  an  impression  which  time  could 
not  extinguish  in  his  heart.  His  native  place  was  al- 
ways dear  to  him  ;  he  loved  to  revisit  it.  He  saw  it 
for  the  last  time  late  in  life,  when  he  was  himself  heavily 
laden  with  affliction,  and  his  relations,  and  many  of  his 
earlier  friends,  owing  to  the  changes  of  life  and  the 
change  of  death,  were  no  longer  there.  He  thus  alludes 
to  the  visit  in  his  diary  :  —  "  What  a  change  !  To  go 
back,  no  longer  young'either  in  years  or  in  heart,  —  to 
see  a  generation  almost  entirely  new  risen  up  in  the  place 
of  their  fathers,  and  only  a  few  ruins  just  ready  to  fall 
remaining  to  remind  us  of  the  past  !  " 

Mr.  Peabody  remained  in  this  position  for  a  year, 
fulfilling  its  duties  acceptably  to  others  and  with  profit  to 
himself.  His  gentle  firmness  gave  him  a  strong  influ- 
ence over  the  minds  and  hearts  of  his  pupils,  and  he 
found  the  occupation  eminently  beneficial  in  giving  him 
habits  of  accuracy  in  acquiring  and  imparting  knowl- 
edge. At  the  expiration  of  this  term  he  went  to  Cam- 
bridge, to  pursue  his  theological  studies  under  Dr. 
Ware,  the  Hollis  Professor  of  Divinity  ;  and,  after 
passing  through  the  usual  course  for  three  years,  he 
began  his  labors  as  a  preacher  in  the  year  1819,  when 
he  had  just  reached  the  age  of  twenty.  What  impres- 
sion was  made  by  his  character  at  this  period,  as  well 
as  by  his  earliest  efforts  in  the  pulpit,  may  be  seen  by 
an   extract  from  a  letter  written  by   Hon.   Daniel  A. 


XVI  MEMOIR. 

White  of  Salem,  who  then  became  acquainted  with 
him  for  the  first  time,  and  was  ever  afterwards  his 
friend.  That  gentleman  had  relatives  in  Springfield, 
who  were  connected  with  a  religious  society  which  had 
been  recently  formed  in  that  place,  under  circumstances 
of  which  an  account  will  presently  be  given.  They 
were  at  this  time  about  to  select  some  person  as  their 
minister,  and  Mr.  Peabody  had  already  been  engaged  to 
preach  to  them.  We  give  the  letter  as  an  evidence  of 
the  opinion  formed  of  him  by  one  whose  discernment 
none  will  question,  and  whose  judgment  will  be  felt  by 
all  to  be  entitled  to  respect.  It  is  addressed  to  a  friend 
in  Springfield. 

January,  1820.  —  "  Mr.  Peabody,  the  young  preach- 
er, is  in  Exeter,  and  I  understand  that  he  and  his  friends 
anticipate   with  pleasure  his  visit   to    Springfield.     He 

has  made  us  a  visit,  of  which  has  informed  you. 

We  were  greatly  pleased  with  him.  He  appears  to  be 
just  the  right  sort  of  man  for  you,  and  for  any  good, 
candid,  enlightened  people,  who  know  how  to  appreciate 
and  cherish  modest  worth.  He  has  very  respectable 
talents  and  attainments  for  his  age,  and  these  will  con- 
tinually be  growing  and  ripening  with  advancing  years. 
His  purity  of  mind  and  character,  and  his  sincere  piety, 
united  with  the  most  benevolent  social  affections,  and  del- 
icate feelings,  will  render  him  dear  to  those  who  have  a 
refined  taste,  as  well  as  sound  principles  in  morality  and 
religion.  You  may  think  me  too  slightly  acquainted  with 
Mr.  Peabody  to  speak  of  him  so  positively,  and  I  con- 
fess that  my  opportunity  for  acquaintance  with  him  is  far 
less  than  I  could  wish.  But  he  makes,  at  once,  a  strong 
impression  in  his  favor,  —  an  impression  that  every  thing 


MEMOIR.  XV11 

essential  in  his  character  is  as  it  should  be,  —  and  he 
inspires  confidence  that  he  will  never  disappoint  any 
reasonable  expectations.  He  is  too  young  to  take  the 
burdens  of  a  parochial  charge,  unless  those  burdens  be 
lightened  by  the  kindness  of  the  people.  I  cannot  but 
hope  that  he  will  suit  you,  and  after  some  time  become 
your  minister,  and  if  so,  I  feel  sure  that  you  will  find 
in  him  a  sincere  and  affectionate*  friend." 

An  equally  favorable  impression  appears  to  have  been 
made  upon  the  members  of  the  society  in  Springfield. 
They  very  soon  came  to  the  unanimous  determination  to 
invite  him  to  become  their  minister.  The  invitation  was 
accepted,  and  he  was  ordained  on  the  12th  day  of 
October,  1820  ;  thus  beginning  a  relation  which  contin- 
ued for  the  space  of  nearly  twenty-seven  years,  with 
entire  harmony,  until  it  was  broken  by  his  death.  All 
the  essential  facts  relative  to  the  situation  of  the  society 
at  this  time,  and  to  his  own  position,  are  distinctly  stated 
in  a  Familiar  Address,  which  he  delivered  at  a  social 
meeting  of  his  parishioners,  on  the  16th  of  March,  1S.43. 
The  following  passage  is  an  extract  :  — 

"  It  was  on  this  season  of  the  year  1820,  that  I  first 
came  to  Springfield  ;  it  was  in  those  days  when  it  requir- 
ed two  days'  travelling  to  reach  this  town  from  Boston. 
Winter  though  it  was,  I  well  remember  the  delight  with 
which  I  first  looked  upon  this  queen  of  valleys  from  the 
brow  of  the  neighbouring  hill  ;  even  then,  in  its  snowy 
vesture,  it  seemed  to  me  the  most  beautiful  that  I  ever 
saw.  Many  circumstances  combined  to  produce  in  me 
some  desolate  feelings.  I  was  very  young,  wanting 
some  months  of  the  age  of  twenty-one  ;  I  was  without 
experience  in  my  own  profession,  having  preached  but  a 


XV111  MEMOIR. 

few  Sabbaths  ;  I  was  wholly  unacquainted  with  the  in- 
habitants of  the  village,  not  having  seen  more  than  one 
or  two  of  them  before.  I  knew,  also,  that  this  was  a 
frontier  station,  which  would  require  a  degree  of  judg- 
ment and  power  which  I  was  far  from  possessing.  But 
I  was  met  with  a  friendly  welcome,  which  at  once  re- 
moved those  feelings,  and  I  soon  found  that  it  was  the 
place  for  me  where  to  live,  and  possibly  to  die.  Here  I 
have  lived  for  many  years,  and  here  I  hope  to  die.  It 
makes  me  sad  to  think  how  many  of  those  warm  hands 
which  were  then  extended  to  me  are  now  in  the  dust 
of  the  grave. 

"  The  church  to  which  I  was  invited  had  been  formed 
in  the  preceding  year.  Some  members  of  the  First 
Church  had  become  dissatisfied,  for  the  alleged  reason, 
that  the  course  of  exchanges  was  less  liberal  than  in  for- 
mer years.  This,  with  kindred  reasons  of  discontent,  had 
produced  an  alienation  which  it  seemed  impossible  to 
heal.  It  was  therefore  thought  advisable,  by  the  dis- 
satisfied party,  to  form  a  society  of  their  own.  This  was 
accordingly  done.  A  generous  benefactor,*  whose  name 
rises  up  at  once  to  the  minds  of  all  before  me,  presented 
them  with  a  church,  and  thus  insured  success  to  the 
movement ;  his  example  was  worthily  followed  by  his 
associates  in  providing  for  the  support  of  worship  in  it, 
complying  with  the  only  condition  on  which  his  noble 
gift  was  made.  Thus  encouraged  in  the  beginning  of 
their  enterprise,  they  went  on  with  confidence.  In 
number  they  were  few  ;  but  they  were  strong  in  char- 
acter, strong  in  purpose,  and  stronger  yet  in  the  con- 
viction that  their  cause  was  just. 

*  Jonathan  Dwight,  Esq. 


MEMOIR.  XIX 

"  The  controversy  which  was  raging  elsewhere  had 
not  then  reached  this  town.  The  separation  was  owing, 
if  I  am  rightly  informed,  to  causes  and  questions  not 
connected  with  the  Unitarian  faith,  which  was  then 
spreading  in  the  eastern  part  of  the  State.  The  se- 
ceders  generally  held  to  Arminian  or  old-fashioned 
Calvinistic  opinions,  as  they  were  then  called,  meaning 
opinions  from  which  nearly  all  'but  the  name  of  Calvin- 
ism had  died  away.  Our  church  was  consecrated  in 
1819,  by  some  of  the  neighbouring  clergy,  and  it  is  not 
on  record  that  any  inquisition  was  made  respecting  the 
sentiments  of  its  members.  Some  of  those  clergymen 
also  exchanged  with  me  when  I  was  preaching  as  a  can- 
didate to  this  people.  The  person  who  officiated  as  a 
candidate  before  me  was  a  professed  Calvinist,  and  his 
preaching  was  very  acceptable  to  some  of  the  society. 
The  preacher  who  was  employed  to  supply  the  desk 
was  an  Orthodox  divine  from  a  neighbouring  State, 
who  at  the  time  retained,  also,  his  former  opinions. 
I  refer  to  these  facts,  not  as  of  much  interest  in 
themselves,  but  as  parts  of  our  history  unknown,  prob- 
ably, to  some  of  those  who  have  risen  up  to  take 
the  places  of  the  men  by  whom  the  foundations  of 
the  society  were  laid. 

"  As  I  had  received  my  education  at  Cambridge,  it 
was  inferred  that  I  held  the  sentiments  which  prevailed 
ther%  and  thus  the  Unitarian  question  was  at  once  open- 
ed, and  a  spirit  of  inquiry  excited.  Many  began  to  ex- 
amine their  former  sentiments,  and  to  compare  them 
with  the  word  of  God.  Of  this  number  was  Mr.  Hun- 
tington, who  was  then  supplying  the  desk,  and  Dr.  How- 
ard, whose  name  will  always  be  spoken  with  reverence 


XX  MEMOIR. 

here.      Though  they  had  often  preached  the  doctrine  of 
the  Trinity,  and  had  no  doubts  of  its  truth,  they  could 
not  reconcile  it  to  their  conscience  to  dismiss  the  sub- 
ject without  inquiry.    They   did  inquire,  first  examining 
our    Saviour's  testimony   concerning  himself,   and  then 
searching  for  all  the  light  which  inspiration  gives  ;  and 
the  consequence  was  a  conviction,  on  their  part,  that  the 
doctrine  was  not  sustained  by  the  word  of  God.    Others 
went  through  the  same  investigation,  and  came  to   the 
same  result.     As  the  ecclesiastical  bodies  felt  bound  to 
censure  those  who  after  the  way  which  they  called  heresy 
worshipped    the    God    of  their   fathers,  their   claim    to 
power  was  asserted  and  resisted  with  equal  zeal.     The 
alienation  spread  fast  and  far ;  breaking  the  ties  which 
bind    men  to   each   other,  separating  those  whom  God 
and  nature  had  united,  giving  to  religious  sects  the  spirit 
of  political  factions,    and  making  every  church  a  for- 
tress, always  armed  for  war  with  the  hostile  party.    Such 
were  the  times  in  which  my  ministry  began  :    it  is  suffi- 
cient to  say  of  them,  that  all  who  lived  through  them 
would  pray  that  they  might  never  see  their  like  again. 
But  it  gives  me  pleasure  to  say  that  the  pastor  of  the 
First  Church*  has  been  uniformly  kind  and  friendly  tow- 
ards me,  from  the  beginning  to   the   present   day  ;  and 
from   his  society  I  have  received  many  expressions  of 
kindness  and  respect,  and  none  whatever  of  ill-will." 
In  another  portion  of  the  same  Address,  he  explains 
the  course  which  his  sense  of  duty  led  him  to  pursue  in 
the  beginning  of  his  ministry.     He  had  never  any  dis- 
position to  engage  in  theological  or  any  other  contro- 

*  The  Rev.  Samuel  Osgood,  D.  D. 


MEMOIR.  XXI 

versy.  No  man  ever  studied  more  the  things  that  make 
for  peace  ;  he  would  have  been  content  to  be  called 
pusillanimous,  but  he  could  not  be  content  to  incur  the 
charge,  with  a  consciousness  of  its  justice,  of  having  ex- 
cited or  encouraged  any  vindictive  or  unchristian  pas- 
sions. His  course  in  this  respect  was  approved  by  the 
calm  judgment  of  his  maturer  years  ;  and  its  wisdom 
was  afterwards  made  apparent  in  the  kind  feeling  which 
has  always  marked  the  relations  subsisting  between  his 
society  and  other  Christians  around  them.  It  was  but  a 
few  years  after  his  settlement,  that  a  highly  respected 
member  of  the  society  from  which  his  own  had  sep- 
arated declared,  that  his  coming  had  been  a  real  and 
great   blessing   to   the  place. 

"  As  soon  as  I  took  charge  of  the  pulpit,  a  question 
rose  up  before  me.  Should  I  consider  it  my  duty  to 
explain  and  extend  the  Liberal  opinions,  or  should  I 
devote  myself  to  the  personal  improvement  of  the  mem- 
bers of  my  society,  trusting  that  the  truth  with  respect 
to  doctrines  would  make  its  own  way  in  the  public  mind  ? 
In  pursuing  the  former  course,  I  should  have  struck  the 
key-note  of  the  general  feeling  ;  zeal  of  this  kind  ex- 
cites a  ready  sympathy,  and  the  want  of  it  is  regarded 
as  tameness.  Such  a  course  would  have  added  more  to 
our  numbers  than  any  other,  and  many  plausible  reasons 
might  have  been  given  to  show  that  it  was  the  right  one. 
It  would  have  been  easier,  also,  for  myself.  I  remem- 
ber being  told  by  a  distinguished  physician,  that  he  was 
seldom  consulted  by  controversial  preachers  ;  their  ser- 
mons were  written  without  any  of  that  labor  of  mind 
which  wears  students  down.  But  I  could  not  persuade 
myself  that  this  was  the  way  of  duty.  I  knew  that  as 
c 


XX11  MEMOIR. 

fast  and  as  far  as  party  passions  are  excited,  devotion 
and  charity  are  apt  to  forsake  the  breast  ;  I  was  well 
aware  that  many  are  made  Unitarians,  Calvinists,  Bap- 
tists, and  sectarians  of  every  name,  without  being  made 
Christians  by  the  same  conversion.  '  I  therefore  deter- 
mined,' if  it  is  not  presumption  in  me  to  use  the  words, 
'  I  therefore  determined  to  know  nothing  among  you 
save  Jesus  Christ,  and  him  crucified.'  Since  men 
were  sent  into  the  world,  not  to  put  on  the  livery  of  a 
party,  but  to  lay  the  foundations  of  character  in  prepara- 
tion for  immortal  life,  I  would  always  spend  the  best  of 
my  strength  to  impress  this  solemn  and  .indispensable 
duty  on  all  whom  my  voice  could  reach.* 

"  In  looking  back  upon  this  determination  at  the  dis- 
tance of  more  than  twenty  years,  I  see  in  it  nothing  to 
regret  ;  but  I  do  see  in  it  a  strong  reason  for  gratitude  to 
the  society  which,  in  such  times  of  excitement,  permitted 
me  to  pursue  a  course  so  unpopular,  obscure,  and  unlike- 
ly to  add  to  their  numbers.  I  have  been  grateful  to  them 
for  many  things,  but  most  of  all  for  this.  It  is  not  every 
society  which  would  have  consented  to  it,  though  per- 
haps, in  these  peaceful  times,  the  present  generation  can- 
not understand  how  great  a  sacrifice  of  feeling  was  ne- 
cessary to  receive  the  fire  of  other  sects  without  return- 
ing it,  to  keep  the  white  flag  flying  in  the  midst  of  the 
war,  and  to  maintain  that  moderation  which  requires 
strength  of  character  and  principle,  but  which  is  treated 

*  In  a  letter  to  a  friend  in  Salem,  dated  March  6th,  1820,  we  find 
the  following  sentiment :  —  "I  have  seen  no  hostility  whatever  tow- 
ard the  other  society,  and  I  am  sure  that  I  shall  not  attempt  to  ex- 
cite it.  I  hope  they  will  never  contend,  except  in  showing  which 
opinions  have  the  best  influence  upon  the  character." 


MEMOIR.  XX111 

by  partisans  with  supreme  disdain.  But  whatever  the 
sacrifice  may  have  been  at  the  time,  I  am  persuaded  that 
no  one  repents  it  now.  They  have  lived  to  see  that 
'  he  who  goeth  forth  weeping,  bearing  precious  seed, 
shall  doubtless  return  rejoicing,  bringing  his  sheaves  with 
him.'" 

It  is  not  easy  for  one  who  knows  Springfield  only  as 
it  is  now,  to  imagine  how  completely  insulated  was  the 
situation  of  a  minister  of  the  Liberal  faith  five-and- 
twenty  years  ago.  Mr.  Peabody  found  all  the  support 
and  encouragement  he  could  ask  in  the  kindness  of  his 
parishioners,  and  in  particular  from  the  venerable  Dr. 
Howard,  once  the  minister  of  the  First  Society,  whose 
friendly  counsels  were  always  wise  and  useful  ;  a  man 
who,  by  his  genuine  and  unaffected  sincerity,  and  fervent 
piety,  combined  with  intellectual  powers  of  no  common 
order,  commanded  the  regard  and  reverence  of  all. 
But  his  labors  were  unremitted  and  severe.  Exchanges 
with  his  brethren  of  other  persuasions,  he  had  none  ; 
very  rarely  any  with  those  of  his  own.  He  has  been 
heard  to  say,  that  there  was  a  period  of  eighteen  months 
during  which  he  preached  without  an  exchange  or  any 
relief  whatever.  His  own  account  of  some  of  the  diffi- 
culties under  which  he  labored  is  given  in  the  Address 
from  which  large  extracts  have  been  already  made,  and 
which  may  be  regarded  as  an  autobiography  of  this 
portion  of  his  life. 

"  I  was  younger,  and  less  experienced  than  most 
clergymen  when  they  are  settled  ;  not  acquainted  with 
navigation  till  far  at  sea.  Others  have  those  of  their 
own  profession  near  them  to  whom  they  can  look  for 
sympathy  and  counsel  in  their  trials  ;  it  was  not  so  with 


XXIV  MEMOIR. 

me.  I  had  but  one  such  friend,*  and,  wise  and  excellent 
as  he  was,  the  disparity  of  age,  and  social  changes  that 
had  taken  place  since  he  left  the  profession,  rendered  it 
difficult  for  him  sometimes  to  understand  my  feelings. 
Others  have  those  near  them  with  whom  they  can  ex- 
change labors  on  the  Sabbath  ;  but,  as  you  well  know, 
there  were  none  who  would  afford  me  that  relief.  Know- 
ing that  a  preacher  who  does  not  keep  his  mind  in  con- 
stant action  and  improvement  soon  loses  his  influence 
with  all  intelligent  people,  I  felt  that  my  preparation  for 
the  desk  must  be  attended  to,  whatever  else  might  be 
left  undone.  I  found  that  the  field  of  ddty  was  larger 
than  I  could  fill.  I  was  bewildered  and  oppressed, — 
more  oppressed  than  words  can  tell.  I  well  remember 
how,  on  returning  after  an  absence,  my  heart  would  die 
within  me  as  I  came  within  the  sound  of  the  evening 
bell  ;  it  reminded  me  of  claims  that  I  could  not  answer, 
and  wants  that  were  not  supplied.  Again  and  again  I 
determined  to  cumber  the  ground  no  longer,  though  I 
felt  that  in  leaving  you  I  should  be  going  from  my  cho- 
sen home.  I  know  not  how  it  was  that  I  persevered  ; 
having  obtained  help  of  God,  T  continue  to  this  day, 
certainly  to  my  happiness,  however  it  may  have  been 
for  you." 

He  did  not  spare  his  labors  ;  and  it  was  not  long  be- 
fore they  began  seriously  to  affect  his  health.  In  the 
summer  of  1821,  his  eyesight  was  so  much  impaired 
that  serious  apprehensions  were  entertained  of  the  ne- 
cessity of  his  retiring  from  the  ministry.  But  in  the  fol- 
lowing year,  the  prospect  grew  even  darker.  For  sev- 
eral months  he  was  in  a  state  of  extreme  debility,  which 

*Rev.  Dr.  Howard. 


MEMOIR.  XXV 

compelled  him  wholly  to  desist  from  every  kind  of  labor. 
Late  in  the  autumn,  however,  he  was  so  far  restored  as 
to  be  able  to  resume  his  duties.  But  during  the  whole 
period  of  his  ministry,  he  never  regained  the  free  use  of 
his  eyes,  and  probably  never  knew  what  it  was  to  enjoy 
the  feeling  of  entire  health.  It  was  his  usual  practice  to 
write  two  discourses  in  each  week,  and  to  these  was 
commonly  added  a  weekly  lecture  for  the  illustration  of 
the  Scriptures.  From  the  accounts  given  us  by  those 
who  listened  to  him  in  the  earlier  period  of  his  ministry, 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  his  preaching  was  then  touch- 
ing and  impressive.  He  had  no  leisure  for  the  prepara- 
tion of  very  elaborate  discourses,  and  had  no  taste  for 
controversial  divinity  whatever.  His  aim  was  to  en- 
kindle the  spiritual  life  in  the  hearts  of  those  who  heard 
him  ;  and  with  this  end  in  view,  he  dwelt  but  little  on 
disputed  doctrines,  and  cared  little  for  the  peculiarities 
of  sects.  Love  to  God  and  man,  —  the  attractive  di- 
vinity of  holiness  as  manifested  in  the  character  of  Je- 
sus Christ,  —  the  qualities  and  graces  by  which  man  is 
brought  into  resemblance  to  the  Saviour  and  to  God,  — 
these  were  the  points  on  which  he  dwelt  with  the  great- 
est earnestness  and  satisfaction.  He  was  deeply  solici- 
tous to  cherish  in  himself,  and  to  inculcate  upon  others, 
that  unfailing  charity  and  kindness  without  which  Chris- 
tianity is  but  a  light-house  tower  in  which  no  flame  is 
kindled.  He  was  never  inclined  to  ascertain  and  point 
out  what  was  wrong  in  other  sects,  so  much  as  the  par- 
ticulars in  which  they  might  be  imitated,  and  was  ever 
ready  to  express  his  love  and  admiration  of  the  pure 
and  eminent,  who  have  given  lustre  to  them  all.  All 
those,  of  all  persuasions,  who  loved  the  Lord  Jesus   in 


XXVI  MEMOIR. 

sincerity,  were  to  him  as  brethren.  This  spirit  of  love 
was  the  ruling  principle  of  his  life  ;  and  probably  no 
hearer  of  his  was  ever  induced  by  his  persuasion  or  ex- 
ample to  indulge  in  a  spirit  censorious  or  harshly  critical 
towards  any  other  human  being. 

From  this  period  until  the  close  of  his  ministry,  he 
was  quietly  but  diligently  employed  in  the  discharge  of 
his  duty.  The  course  of  his  life  was  varied  by  few  inci- 
dents which  the  public  would  be  interested  to  know  ;  and 
without  dwelling  any  further  upon  these  than  may  be  ne- 
cessary for  the  illustration  of  his  history,  I  shall  endeav- 
our to  draw  from  portions  of  his  correspondence,  as  well 
as  from  information  derived  from  other  sources,  a  faith- 
ful transcript  of  his  mind  and  heart.  It  has  already 
been  said,  that  from  the  outset  there  was  an  evident  pro- 
-gress  and  change  in  both.  As  he  advanced  in  life,  he 
withdrew  his  attention  more  and  more  from  the  subjects 
of  ordinary  interest  and  contemplation,  to  concentrate  it 
upon  the  greatest  which  can  engage  the  thoughts  of  an 
immortal  mind. 

Some  of  his  leisure  hours  were  given  to  poetry.  He 
never,  however,  attached  much  consequence  to  his  ef- 
forts in  this  department,  and,  though  his  productions 
were  quite  numerous  and  attracted  much  attention,  never 
thought  it  worth  his  while  to  collect  and  preserve  them. 
There  was  one  of  these  which  some  yet  remember, 
though  copies  of  it  are  no  longer  to  be  found.  This 
was  a  Poetical  Catechism  for  the  use  of  the  young, 
which  was  written  and  published  in  the  year  1823.  He 
was  induced  to  write  it  by  a  persuasion  that  an  enu- 
meration in  verse  of  the  principal  duties  of  religion  would 
be   studied  by  children  with  more  pleasure,  and  remem- 


MEMOIR.  XXV11 

bered  longer,  than  the  common  catechisms  in  prose ; 
and  the  experiment  succeeded  according  to  his  wishes. 
Several  pieces  were  subjoined  to  this  catechism,  which 
were  designed  to  connect  whatever  is  beautiful  in  nature 
with  religious  feelings  in  the  minds  of  the  young.  Many 
of  these  have  been  transferred  to  other  publications,  and 
may  still  be  found  in  collections  of  sacred  poetry. 
Among  them,  that  which  begins  with  the  words,  "  Be- 
hold the  western  evening  light,"  is  generally  known,  and 
seldom  fails  to  find  an  answering  chord  in  the  reader's 
heart.  At  the  request  of  a  relative  who  was  engaged 
in  the  publication  of  a  newspaper  in  his  native  place, 
he  contributed  for  a  year  or  two  freely  to  its  columns, 
and  wrote  most  of  the  pieces  by  which  his  poetical 
talent  became  known.  He  also  wrote  occasionally  for 
the  annuals,  and  in  compliance  with  the  request  of  friends, 
whom  he  was  unwilling  to  refuse  ;  but  his  interest  in  the 
employment  passed  away  with  his  youth,  and  though  he 
never  wholly  ceased  to  write,  he  did  it  only  when  some 
occasion  required  a  hymn  or  other  production  more  ap- 
propriate than  any  that  could  be  readily  selected. 

He  doubtless  formed  too  low  an  estimate  of  his  poeti- 
cal writings.  The  highest  exhibition  of  talent  is  not  often 
found  in  brief  effusions,  like  the  genii  in  the  little  box. 
His  were  invariably  marked  by  uncommon  grace  and 
beauty  of  versification,  and  by  deep,  true,  and  elevated 
feeling  ;  and  it  is  hardly  just  to  infer  that  loftier  qualities 
of  poetry  have  no  existence,  because  they  are  not  found 
where  they  are  not  wanted. 

On  the  eighth  of  September,  1824,  Mr.  Peabody  mar- 
ried Miss  Elizabeth  Amelia  White,  daughter  of  Moses 
White,  Esq.,  of  Lancaster,  New  Hampshire,  a  lady  of 


XXV111  MEMOIR. 

uncommon  loveliness  of  person  and  of  character.  His 
eldest  child,  Fanny,  was  born  in  the  following  year. 
The  history  of  both  was  afterwards  mournfully  blended 
with  his  own.  No  man  could  be  more  blest  than  he 
was  in  all  that  constitutes  a  home.  In  the  progress  of 
this  narrative,  it  will  become  essential  to  dwell  somewhat 
at  large  upon  the  admirable  qualities  that  gave  his  wife 
such  a  hold  upon  his  heart,  and  endeared  her  to  all  who 
knew  her. 

He  was  now  in  a  position  precisely  suited  to  his  taste 
and  feeling  ;  —  connected  with  a  religious  society,  to 
whose  welfare  and  improvement  he  devoted  himself  with 
his  whole  heart,  and  who  repaid  his  care  by  a  respect 
and  love  which  were  never  impaired  during  the  whole 
period  of  their  connection,  and  went  on  increasing  to  the 
-last.  His  mind  was  always  active  ;  and  he  found  a  re- 
lief from  his  severer  toil  in  the  contemplation  and  study 
of  nature,  —  a  study  which,  inspiring  as  it  is,  is  culti- 
vated only  by  a  few.  There  was  no  department  of  nat- 
ural science  in  which  he  was  not  interested  ;  there  was 
none  with  which  he  was  not  in  some  degree  familiar  ; 
but  he  devoted  his  leisure  principally  to  those  branches 
which  circumstances  made  it  most  easy  for  him  to  pur- 
sue. His  knowledge  of  plants  and  of  forest-trees  was 
very  accurate  and  extensive  ;  and  he  occasionally  de- 
livered lectures  upon  them,  and  other  branches  of  natu- 
ral history,  which  were  heard  with  interest  and  pleasure. 
It  was  always  delightful  to  him  to  inspire  a  taste  for 
these  pursuits  in  the  minds  of  the  young,  because  he 
believed  it  to  be  intimately  connected  with  religious 
feeling.     In  one  of  these  lectures,  he  says  :  — 

"  Perhaps  you  may  remember  the  child  mentioned  by 


MEMOIR.  XXIX 

Wilson,  who  came  in  with  a  radiant  countenance  to 
his  mother,  bringing  a  handful  of  wild-flowers,  saying, 
'  O,  what  beautful  flowers  !  the  woods  are  full  of 
them,  —  red,  —  orange,  —  blue,  —  'most  every  color  ! 
I  can  gather  a  whole  parcel  of  them,  much  handsomer 
than  these,  all  growing  in  our  own  woods  !  Shall  I, 
mother  ?  Shall  I  go  and  bring  more  ? '  The  naturalist  said 
that  the  feeling  of  the  child  precisely  resembled  his  own. 
Would  it  not  be  easy  to  cherish  that  fine  enthusiasm  of 
youth  till  it  becomes  an  intellectual  desire  of  knowl- 
edge ?  I  think  it  would.  We  know  how  easily  the  eye 
glides  over  a  sweet  evening  prospect  to  the  clear  heaven 
beyond  ;  so  it  passes  of  itself,  and  without  effort,  from 
the  contemplation  of  nature,  up  to  nature's  God." 

For  several  years  he  occupied  a  detached  building  as 
a  study,  situated  in  his  garden.  In  this  retired  spot,  he 
had  an  opportunity  of  becoming  acquainted  with  the 
varieties  of  birds,  and  of  studying  their  habits.  This 
persecuted  race  have  abundant  sagacity  to  distinguish 
the  idle  destroyers  from  whom  it  is  well  that  they  can 
fly  from  those  who  are  disposed  to  be  their  friends. 
With  these  they  are  glad  to  be  familiar,  as  if  to  show 
that  they  deserve  more  attention  and  better  treatment 
than  they  have  ever  yet  been  able  to  secure.  Mr.  Pea- 
body's  researches  on  this  subject  were  curious  and 
minute  ;  more  so  than  is  usually  to  be  expected  from  one 
whose  mind  is  earnestly  employed  upon  more  important 
things.  But  he  endeavoured  to  bring  all  his  occupations 
into  harmony  with  the  great  object  to  which  his  life  was 
devoted,  and  he  believed  that  this  pursuit  would  not  be 
without  its  value,  if  it  should  enable  him  to  cultivate  a 
taste   for  it  in  the  children  of  his  charge,  before  they 


XXX  MEMOIR. 

learn  from  the  example  of  their  elders  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  birds  only  for  the  purpose  of  tormenting 
or  destroying  them.  There  is  extant  among  his  papers 
a  series  of  lectures,  delivered  before  the  Sabbath  school 
of  his  society,  in  which  the  subject  of  plants  and  birds 
is  treated  in  a  manner  that  could  not  fail  to  engage  the 
attention  of  the  young.  These  were  illustrated  by 
drawings,  made  and  colored  by  his  own  hand,  with  an 
accuracy  and  beauty  which  would  have  done  no  discredit 
to  the  skill  of  an  accomplished  artist.  Indeed,  in  youth 
he  exhibited  a  decided  taste  for  drawing,  and  though 
he  subsequently  ceased  to  cultivate  it,  practised  the  art 
occasionally  for  the  benefit  of  his  friends,  or  for  some 
purpose  of  his  own.  There  is  reason  to  believe,  that 
the  instructions  to  which  I  have  alluded  were  not  with- 
out a  lasting  and  beneficent  effect  upon  the  minds  of 
those  who  received  them. 

What  requires  further  to  be  said  concerning  the  in- 
terest which  he  took  in  natural  history  may  as  well 
be  stated  here.  About  the  year  1830,  the  magnificent 
publications  of  Mr.  Audubon  began  to  draw  the  atten- 
tion of  many  to  the  science  of  ornithology,  which  his 
enthusiasm  and  unwearied  industry  have  done  so  much 
to  advance.  One  of  his  volumes  was  made  by  Mr. 
Peabody  the  subject  of  an  article  in  the  North  Ameri- 
can Review  ;  and  this  was  the  beginning  of  an  acquaint- 
ance between  them,  which  continued  through  his  life. 
Several  other  articles  upon  subjects  connected  with 
natural  history,  about  the  same  period,  may  be  remem- 
bered by  some  of  the  readers  of  that  journal.  Most  of 
them,  if  not  all,  were  written  by  Mr.  Peabody,  and 
were  distinguished  by  a  style  well  calculated  to  render 


MEMOIR.  XXXi 

them  attractive,  animated,  clear,  and  vigorous,  and  en- 
livened by  a  delicate  and  playful  humor.  He  was  also 
the  author  of  a  Life  of  Alexander  Wilson,  for  the  Amer- 
ican Biography  published  by  Mr.  Sparks,  in  which  the 
touching  history  of  that  ill-fated  pioneer  is  feelingly  and 
beautifully  told. 

In  1837,  a  survey  of  the  State  of  Massachusetts, 
having  reference  to  several  branches  of  science,  was 
ordered  by  the  Legislature  ;  and  the  Governor,  Edward 
Everett,  was  authorized  to  appoint  suitable  persons  to 
execute  the  task.  He  selected  Mr.  Peabody  to  pre- 
pare a  Report  upon  the  birds  of  the  Commonwealth. 
This  Report  was  completed  and  published  in  the  year 
1S39  ;  and  it  is  believed  to  have  answered  the  end 
which  the  Legislature  had  in  view.  In  addition  to  his 
own  researches,  he  had  the  liberal  aid  of  other  gentle- 
men, who  have  presented  similar  ones  with  great  ardor 
and  success.  His  descriptions  of  the  birds  and  their 
habits  are  given  with  a  lifelike  truth  and  animation,  not 
less  engaging  to  the  general  than  to  the  scientific  reader.' 
It  answered,  also,  a  higher  and  a  better  than  a  merely 
scientific  end.  It  pleaded  the  cause  of  humanity,  which 
is  so  little  regarded  as  respects  inferior  animals,  that  the 
suggestion  of  it  seems  to  many  to  be  little  better  than 
mere  affectation.  It  would  be  well  if  the  views  which 
he  presented  on  the  subject  of  destroying  birds  were 
more  generally  entertained,  both  by  those  who  indulge 
in  a  cruel  amusement  to  wile  away  an  idle  hour,  and  by 
farmers,  who  secure  themselves  from  a  small  evil  at  the 
expense  of  one  incomparably  greater,  by  exterminating 
birds,  against  whose  depredations  they  can  protect  them- 
selves, for  the  benefit  of  insects,  whose  ravages  bid  de- 


XXX11  MEMOIR. 

fiance  to  all  that  man's  art  and  power  can  do.  He 
showed  that  the  farmer  is  now  severely  suffering  in  con- 
sequence of  this  ignorance  and  folly,  which  place  diffi- 
culties in  the  way  of  cultivation  that  no  skill  or  industry 
can  overcome.  It  is  earnestly  to  be  desired  that  what 
he  and  other  friends  of  humanity  have  written  on  this 
subject  may  have  some  effect  upon  the  feelings  and 
habits  which  have  everywhere  prevailed. 

It  was  said  by  Dr.  Gannett,  in  his  discourse  at  the 
funeral  of  Mr.  Peabody,  that  "his  intellectual  qualities 
particularly  fitted  him  to  act  upon  the  public  through 
that  great  channel  of  influence  to  which  recent  times 
have  given  a  depth  and  breadth  unknown  before  our 
day,  —  the  periodical  press.  The  clearness  and  just- 
ness of  his  conceptions,  the  extent  and  variety  of  his 
knowledge,  the  ease  and  elegance  of  his  style,  and  the 
calm,  sweet  dignity  of  his  temper,  were  admirably  suited 
to  the  higher  functions  of  the  essayist  and  the  reviewer." 
His  first  article  in  the  North  American  Review,  on 
"  The  Decline  of  Poetry,"  was  written  in  1826.  From 
this  time  to  1830,  he  contributed  occasionally  to  the 
pages  of  that  journal  and  of  the  Christian  Examiner. 
Then  the  North  American  Review  passed  into  the  hands 
of  Mr.  Alexander  H.  Everett,  his  brother-in-law,  in 
compliance  with  whose  desire  he  wrote  many  articles 
during  that  and  the-  five  or  six  following  years.  A  few 
of  his  productions  may  be  found  in  "  The  Token," 
which  was  annually  published  during  a  considerable  pe- 
riod in  Boston  ;  among  these,  "  The  Methodist  Story  " 
may  be  remembered  by  some  of  its  readers.  By  these 
and  other  productions,  he  became  generally  known  as  a 
writer  beyond  the  limits  of  his  profession.     It  is  unne- 


MEMOIR.  XXX111 

cessary  to  enter  here  into  an  examination  of  his  merits  in 
this  department.  Those  who  are  interested  will  proba- 
bly be  enabled  to  form  their  own  judgment  from  the  por- 
tion of  his  miscellaneous  writings  which  it  is  the  purpose 
of  his  friends  to  publish.  It  is  proper  to  observe,  that  he 
was  not  induced  to  engage  in  this  species  of  writing  by 
any  love  of  the  occupation.  He  did  it  partly  in  com- 
pliance with  the  request  of  friends  who  were  engag- 
ed in  the  publication  of  journals  and  were  anxious  to 
procure  his  aid,  and  partly  in  order  to  add  something 
lo  a  salary,  which,  though  large  as  any  given  to  ministers 
in  that  neighbourhood,  was  exhausted  by  a  liberal  hospi- 
tality and  by  the  demands  of  an  increasing  family.  In 
the  year  1834,  he  thus  writes  to  a  friend  :  — 

"  I  fear  that,  since  the  enlargement  of  my  family,  my 
salary  will  turn  out  like  our  old  friend,  the  General's,  well- 
saved  uniform,  when  he  undertook  to  clothe  himself  in 
armour  at  the  last  war.  The  uniform  had  not  diminish- 
ed, but  the  General  had  extended,  — so  that,  after  all  his 
attempts  to  be  genteel,  it  would  not  meet  round  him 
by  six  or  eight  inches.  What  is  written  under  the  in- 
spiration of  ambition  to  turn  a  penny  will  not  be  of  the 
first  order.  They  say,  however,  that  easy  writing  makes 
hard  reading.  I  am  sure  that  mine  is  not  easy  writing, 
so  that  it  may  answer  ; —  and  yet  I  cannot  help  saying, 
with  Macbeth,  when  I  have  finished  an  article,  '  I  am 
afraid  to  think  on  what  I  have  done,  —  look  on  't  again 
I  dare  not.'  By  the  way,  how  little  poetry  there  is 
which  would  be  taken  for  verse  if  the  lines  were  written 
tandem,  as  above." 

In  Mr.  Peabody's  miscellaneous  writings  he  occasion- 
ally exhibited  a  liveliness  and  humor  which  always  mark- 
ed 


XXXIV  MEMOIR. 

ed  his  familiar  conversation,  and  were  often  found  in  his 
correspondence.  These  traits  are  so  characteristic,  that 
we  give  a  few  extracts  from  his  familiar  letters,  which 
may  tend  to  illustrate  them. 

"  I  must  not  forget  to  tell  you  that  we  were  regaled 
with  a   concert,   last   Monday   evening,  given  by  some 
performers  from   Boston.      The   music   was  very  well, 
such  as  I  have  listened   to  with   exemplary  patience   at 
Boylston  Hall  when  I  tried  to  acquire  the  taste  which 
Nature  denied  me  by  attending  oratorios  ;  but  these  per- 
formances are  always  spoiled  for  me  by  the  screaming 
of  the  fiddle,  which,  for  aught  I  know,  may  be  a  great 
luxury  to  the  amateurs,  but  is  a  great  trial  to   me   in 
sacred  music.      Those  who   know  better  say  that    the 
music  was  very  good  ;   but   I  sometimes  thought,  like 
the  clown  in  Shakspeare,  that,  if  they  had  any  of  that 
sort  of  melody  which  could  not  be  heard,  it  would  be 
quite  as  acceptable.      Speaking  of  Shakspeare,  I  do  not 
envy  you  the  privilege  of  seeing  Lear  performed.     No 
actor's  power   can   do  justice  to  my  imagination  of  the 
character,  and,  if  I  mistake  not,  you  see  it  as  altered 
by  Dryden  or  Cibber,  so  that  the  end  of  the  play  is  as 
comfortable  and  happy  as  that  of  a  modern  love  affair. 
Cordelia    is    brought   to    life   by    some  humane-society 
process,  and  the  old   gentleman  comes   to   the  throne, 
where  he  reigns  to  a  good  old  age.      This  result  is  un- 
doubtedly gratifying  to  a  benevolent  mind,  and  I  believe 
according  to  the  truth  of  history,  —  that  is,  Geoffrey  of 
Monmouth.     I  remember  seeing  Romeo  and  Juliet  per- 
formed, when  young,   so  improved  that  he  and  Juliet 
recovered  and  had  a  serious  talk  together  ;  though  not 
called  to  mourn  for  them,  I  was  deeply  affected  at  the 
tragic  fate  of  the  play." 


MEMOIR.  XXXV 

Sept.  2,  1834.  — "  Last  week  I  thought  I  should 
have  been  obliged  to  follow  you  to  the  East.  The 
change  of  weather  had  an  unaccountable  effect  upon  me, 
and  put  me  so  much  out  of  sorts  that  I  feared  I  should 
have  that  pretext  of  ill-health  for  a  journey  which  Dr. 
P.  said  that  he  waited  for  in  vain.  But  the  warmer 
weather  that  has  followed  indefinitely  postponed  that 
prospect,  and  my  physician  noto  thinks  that  he  can 
patch  me  up  so  as  to  make  me  last  a  while  longer.  I 
was  oddly  affected  for  a  day  or  two.  Circulation  seem- 
ed as  much  suspended  in  my  system  as  in  the  money- 
market,  and  I  could  not  make  out  to  walk  half  a  mile 
without  fainting  away.  I  made  out,  however,  to  have  a 
service  on  the  Sabbath,  — not  very  edifying,  but  better 
than  shutting  up  the  house.  You  speak  about  my  ser- 
mon on  the  Catholics.  I  preached  it  on  the  last  Sab- 
bath, and  it  seemed  to  be  listened  to  with  interest. 
Yesterday  I  had  an  application  from  Mr.  Sterns,  in  be- 
half of  others,  to  print  it ;  but  this  I  declined,  thinking 
that  I  had  printed  enough  in  my  day,  and  being  well 
aware  that  the  author  is  the  last  of  the  human  race  who 
comes  to  such  a  conclusion.  I  should  be  glad  to  have 
some  facts  which  were  stated  in  it  generally  known  ;  but 
it  is  a  question  in  my  mind  whether  publishing,  as  it  is 
called,  in  the  form  of  a  sermon  would  be  most  likely  to 
make  them  public  or  to  conceal  them." 

Dec.  17,  1834.  —  "I  suppose  E.  keeps  you  advised 
of  all  that  goes  on  here,  —  or  rather  does  not  go  on  ; 
for  a  general  palsy  seems  to  have  affected  the  social 
system.  We  should  be  glad  even  to  have  phrenology 
back  again  ;  for  we  are  fast  hastening  to  that  ideal  state 
in  which  the  individual  shall  be  every  thing,  and  associa- 


XXXVI  MEMOIR. 

tions  of  every  description  be  done  away.  We  looked 
to  the  lyceum  for  relief,  but  Dr.  began  an  extem- 
poraneous anatomical  lecture  last  Wednesday,  to  be 
continued,  —  how  long  was  not  stated';  but  I  fear  he  will 
hold  on  till  the  house  is  as  thin  as  one  of  his  skeletons. 
I  confess,  however,  that  I  admired  the  man's  courage  ; 
for  I  never  dared  to  follow  the  ancient  clerical  practice 
so  far  as  to  announce  the  after  part  of  the  sermon  for 
the  after  part  of  the  day,  having  fears  lest  the  after  part 
of  the  audience,  meantime,  should  disperse  past  recall." 
Oct.  1840.  —  "I  am  rather  curious  to  see  how  far 
the  anti-Sabbath-and-clergy  mania  will  extend.     I  see 

that  my  old  acquaintance,  Mr.  ,  is  engaged  in  it ; 

and  if  he  is  at  all  zealous,  the  movement  must  be  on  its 
way  down  hill,  since  that  is  the  only  direction  in  which 
he   could  charge  with   vigor  and  effect.     I  was  a  good 

deal   edified  with  's   explanation,  that  their  desire 

was  to  have  the  Sabbath  more  spiritually  observed.  In 
answer,  I  should  say,  that  to  put  a  friend  on  trial  for  his 
life  is  not  the  happiest  way  of  clearing  up  his  character  ; 
the  danger  may  be,  that  it  will  throw  a  suspicion  over 
him  in  the  minds  of  many,  which,  but  for  this  ingenious 
process  of  purgation,  never  would  have  existed.  If  they 
have  any  doubts  themselves,  the  best  course  they  could 
pursue  would  really  be  to  keep  the  Sabbath,  and  see  if 

it  might  not  do  them  some  good.     She  quoted  to a 

remark  of  Mr. ,  that  to  oppose  such  investigations 

implied  an  apprehension  that  the  institution  might  not  be 
able  to  stand  it.  This  reminded  me  of  the  time  and 
again  when  I  have  called  my  children  away  from  my 
neighbour's  mill-pond,  —  they  thinking  my  caution  very 
preposterous,  no  doubt ;   but  it  was  not  from  any  alarm 


MEMOIR.  XXXV11 

with  respect  to  the  pond,  but  simply  from  the  fear 
lest  they  should  fall  in,  —  a  view  of  the  subject  which 
they  could  not  be  made  to  understand.  Well,  if  it  is 
any  comfort  to  them  to  employ  their  energies  in  this  way, 
I  do  not  know  why  any  one  should  object.  They  may 
dig  down  to  the  foundation  on  which  Christianity  rests, 
and  satisfy  themselves  that  their  teeth  and  nails  are  inad- 
equate to  the  operation  of  removing  it,  so  as  to  clear  it 
away,  or  make  it  stand  more  to  their  minds.  When  they 
learn  to  make  the  best  of  things  as  they  are,  the  in- 
struction will  be  worth  what  it  costs  them." 

"  By  this  time,  I  suppose  you  are  comfortably  estab- 
lished in  your  new  house When  I  made  a  sim- 
ilar removal,  I  set  against  the  increased  distance  from 
town  a  clear  view  of  the  sky,  which  I  think  is  better 
than  the  finest  landscape,  and  well  worth  a  few  added 
steps  every  day  for  the  sake  of  reaching  it.  In  the  sky, 
you  have  perpetual  variety,  while  the  lower  prospect  is 
always  the  same  ;  but  they  are  both  good  in  their  way, 
and  I  rejoice  very  much  in  having  them  united.  I 
think  you  have  chosen  the  right  season  for  removal. 
We  always  feel  more  at  home  in  a  new  habitation  after 
having  had  fires  in  it,  nor  do  I  think  we  ever  get  the 
home  feeling  before.  The  storm  that  seems  in  prepara- 
tion to-day  looks  very  much  like  the  vanguard  of  winter. 
The  real  autumn  is  always  pleasant  to  me.  As  has  been 
said,  '  I  love  the  Sabbath  of  the  year ' ;  but  I  rejoice 
less  in  the  Saturday  afternoon  ;  though  there  are  no  ser- 
mons to  prepare,  and  Nature  does  her  own  preaching 
more  effectually  than  any  human  tongue. 

"Our  own  household  wheels  keep  in  motion,  and  go 
on  smoothly,  with  the  exception  of  those  slight  difficulties 
d* 


XXXV111  MEMOIR. 

which  are  found  in  every  domestic  concern.  No  rail- 
roads have  as  yet  been  laid  in  domestic  life  ;  and  when 
they  are,  the  human  engines  will  get  off  the  track  oftener 
than  the  cars 's  principal  recreation  is  find- 
ing fault  with  Amelia  for  her  worldliness  in  always  doing 
for  other  people,  when  she  ought  to  spend  her  time,  like 
a  cat  watching  a  rat-hole,  in  the  care  of  her  own 
heart." 

The  farther  he  advanced  in  life,  the  more  his  taste  and 
feeling  inclined  him  to  devote  himself  exclusively  to  sub- 
jects relating  immediately  to  his  profession.  The  only 
one  in  which  he  engaged  with  enthusiasm  was  the  study 
of  the  Bible  ;  this  he  always  strenuously  urged  upon  his 
hearers  from  the  pulpit,  and  by  his  lectures,  not  so 
much  in  the  way  of  philological  research,  as  to  find 
its  spiritual  meaning.  His  interest  in  these  inquiries 
went  on  increasing  to  the  last  hours  of  his  life. 

It  was  on  the  evening  of  the  16th  of  March,  1843, 
that  the  meeting  of  the  society  took  place  before  which 
was  delivered  the  Familiar  Address  from  which  extracts 
have  been  given  in  the  preceding  pages.  The  members 
of  the  society  assembled  in  a  social  party,  at  the  house 
of  their  minister,  bearing  with  them  many  evidences  of 
that  liberality  of  which  he  had  always  a  large  experience, 
and  all  animated  by  a  spirit  of  kindness  and  good-will. 
In  his  own  words,  "  To  be  surrounded  by  so  many  kind 
and  faithful  friends,  to  see  a  large  society  assembled  in 
harmony,  to  see  my  own  house  lighted  up  with  joy  and 
gladness,  is  one  of  the  greatest  blessings  which  a  God 
of  love  could  bestow." 

In  order  to  present  a  more  vivid  picture  of  this  inter- 
esting occasion,  we  give  a  letter  written  by  one  who  was 
present  and  entered  deeply  into  its  spirit. 


MEMOIR.  XXXIX 

"It  was  a  gathering  together  of  a  whole  congregation, 
rich  and  poor,  high  and  low,  in  expression  of  their  love 
and  sympathy  for  a  pastor  who  for  twenty  years  has 
been  laboring  with  untiring  zeal  for  their  welfare  for 
time  and  eternity.  Neither  did  the  expression  of  good 
feeling  stop  here.  The  whole  people  seemed  as  much 
bound  to  each  other  as  to  their  pastor.  For  once  it 
seemed  to  be  a  living  reality,  not*a  barren  doctrine,  that 
we  are  children  of  one  Father,  —  bound  together  by  one 
sentiment  of  love  and  sympathy.  Each  one  seemed 
ready  to  grasp  the  other  by  the  hand,  and  exclaim,  'It 
is  good  to  be  here.'  The  whole  day  on  Thursday  was 
one  of  great  excitement  throughout  the  parish.  Though 
it  was  considered  best  to  have  none  at  the  house  but  the 
ladies  composing  the  Committee  of  Arrangements  and 
their  aids,  yet,  after  having  busied  ourselves  in  packing 
and  transporting  our  offerings,  we  all  found  it  difficult 
to  employ  our  hands  about  any  of  the  ordinary  business 
of  life ;  —  our  hearts  would  be  at  the  parsonage,  and 
each  one,  I  believe,  felt  anxious  for  the  hour  of  as- 
sembling to  arrive.  We  were  from  the  hours  of  five  to 
eight  in  gathering  together.  In  the  course  of  that 
time,  the  house  was  literally  filled  with  people.  Supper- 
tables  were  spread  in  the  kitchen  and  dining-room,  and 
arranged  in  a  tasteful  and  beautiful  manner.  The  bed- 
room had  been  converted  into  a  library  for  Mr.  Pea- 
body  ;  this  and  the  front  parlour  were  filled,  as  were  both 
lower  and  upper  entry  and  staircase.  The  eastern  front 
chamber  was  filled  with  beautiful  and  appropriate  gifts 
for  the  pastor,  his  wife,  children,  and  domestics,  to 
each  of  which  was  appended  the  name  of  the  donor  or 
the  note  which  accompanied  the  gift.     The  room  was 


xl  MEMOIR. 

crowded  with  articles  which  I  shall  not  attempt  to  enu- 
merate. Every  thing  useful  and  desirable  that  could  be 
thought  of  was  collected,  and  the  first  idea  on  entering  the 

apartment  was  that  you  were  at  a  fair The  house 

was  throughout  the  day  thronged  with  messengers  bear- 
ing their  offerings,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Peabody  were 
overwhelmed,  as  you  may  suppose.  You  never  saw  any 
being  look  so  lovely  and  happy  as  Amelia  did.  Mr. 
Peabody  met  each  one  with  a  cordial  grasp  of  the  hand, 
but  his  heart  seemed  too  full  for  words.  At  about  half 
past  eight,  copies  of  hymns  such  as  I  inclose  for  you 
were  circulated,  in  preparation  for  the  religious  services 
of  the  occasion. 

"  The  first  hymn,  written  by  Mr.  Peabody,  was  sung 
to  the  tune  '  From  Greenland's  icy  mountains.' 

'  Bright  eyes  and  cheerful  voices 

In  the  pastor's  home  to-night  ! 
The  youthful  heart  rejoices, 

The  burdened  one  grows  light; 
For  all  with  him  are  bending, 

In  sympathy  of  praise, 
To  God,  whose  love,  descending, 

Has  crowned  them  all  their  days. 

'  Yet  when  we  thus  assemble, 

And  all  the  past  review, 
The  firmest  well  may  tremble, 

To  think  what  death  can  do. 
The  loved  ones  of  our  number, 

The  holiest,  and  the  best, 
Are  sunk  in  that  calm  slumber 

That  gives  the  weary  rest. 

'But  sons,  their  sires  succeeding, 
Each  vacant  place  shall  fill ; 
In  all  these  changes  reading 
The  lessons  of  His  will 


MEMOIR.  Xli 

Who  spreads  his  banner  o'er  us, 

With  waving  folds  of  love, 
And  gilds  the  scene  before  us 

With  mercy  from  above. 

•  Now  for  that  near  communion 

Which  binds  all  hearts  in  one,  — 
For  heaven's  delightful  union, 

In  this  cold  world  begun,  — 
For  that  glad  faith  which  raises 

Our  dead  to  life  again. 
Let  the  pastor  breathe  his  praises, 

And  the  people  say,  Amen  ! ' 

"Fanny  played  the  piano  ;  several  fine  voices  accom- 
panied her,  and  as  the  piano  was  close  to  the  door,  the 
time  was  given  to  those  in  the  entry,  and  taken  from 
them  by  the  rest.  Throughout  the  house,  the  song  of 
praise  arose.  You  know  the  inspiring  effect  of  such  a 
union  of  voices  ;  —  truly  we  felt  that  '  heaven's  delight- 
ful union  '  had  begun  below.  Next  came  Mr.  Pea- 
body's  Address.  He  took  his  station  upon  a  chair  in 
the  front  entry,  next  the  front  door,  —  and  was  heard 
by  those  above  stairs  quite  as  well  as  by  those  below. 
He  is  not  yet  well  and  strong  ;  and,  after  alluding  to  the 
memory  of  those  faithful  friends  who  welcomed  him 
here,  '  those  warm  hands  that  were  then  extended  to  him, 
—  now  in  the  dust  of  the  grave,'  his  feelings  overpow- 
ered him,  and  he  was  obliged  to  stop  and  have  fresh 
air  and  cold  water  before  he  could  proceed.  You  can 
imagine  how  touching  from  him  would  be  a  review  of 
his  ministry  here.     Tears  fell  fast,  I  assure  you. 

"Next  followed  the  second  hymn,  sung  to  the  tune 

of  'Dismission  Hymn.' 

'  Thou,  whose  mercy  kind  and  tender 
Blessed  the  morning  of  our  day, 


Xlii  MEMOIR. 

Shining  still  with  equal  splendor 
On  the  later  hours  of  day  ;  — 

'  Thou,  who  in  the  hour  of  trouble 
Sendest  angels  from  on  high, 
All  our  thoughtful  joys  to  double, 
All  our  anxious  tears  to  dry  ;  — 

'  Since  thy  never-failing  kindness 
Thus  regards  us  from  above, 
Shall  we  live  in  selfish  blindness, 
All  unworthy  of  thy  love  ? 

'  May  that  blessing  still  attend  us 

Long  as  life's  swift  circle  rolls  ; 
And  in  dark  temptation  lend  us 

That  strong  safeguard  for  our  souls. 

'Let  the  Heavenly  Shepherd,  keeping 
Watch  on  Zion's  holy  towers, 
Save  us,  while  serenely  sleeping, 
Through  this  night's  defenceless  hours. 

'  When  life's  short  and  hurried  story 
Ends  in  death's  profounder  rest, 
Crown  us  with  immortal  glory 
In  the  mansions  of  the  blest.' 

il  A  short  and  fervent  prayer,  with  a  benediction, 
closed  a  service  in  which  a  whole  people  had  united  with 
grateful,  overflowing  hearts.  Of  course,  after  this,  all  were 
too  much  subdued  for  the  gay  tone  of  hilarity  and  con- 
gratulation which  had  preceded  these  touching  services. 
We  spake  one  with  another,  in  softened  tones,  of  all  that 
we  had  enjoyed,  and  soon  after  took  leave  of  the  pastor 
and  his  family,  and  sought  our  own  homes,  there  to  re- 
peat over  and  over  again  the  story  of  our  joys. 

"  I  did  not  mention  in  the  right  place  that  Mr.  Pea- 
body  invited  all  the  children  of  the  society  to  assemble 


memoir.  xliii 

there  the  next  afternoon,  at  six  o'clock,  bringing  with  them 
their  parent's  copy  of  the  hymns.  The  children's  festi- 
val was  a  pleasant  thing.  There  were  117  assembled,  — 
some  of  them  accompanied  by  their  parents.  After 
being  fed,  they  all  engaged  an  hour  in  sport,  after  which 
they  marched  to  the  piano  to  be  counted.  The  children 
filled  the  room,  each  with  the  hymns  in  hand.  They  all 
united  in  singing  the  first  hymn.  Mr.  Peabody  then 
made  them  a  short  address.  After  alluding  to  all  the 
kindness  he  had  received  from  their  parents,  he  told 
them  that  there  was  one  favor  they  could  show  to  him. 
He  then  gave  a  beautiful  and  touching  account  of  John 
Abbot  Emery,*  and  told  them  the  favor  he  would  ask 
of  them  would  be,  so  to  conduct  themselves  in  life,  that, 
when  arrived  at  maturity,  he  might  feel  with  regard  to 
each  one  of  them  as  he  did  with  regard  to  him,  —  proud 
to  be  called  his  minister  and  friend.  They  then  united 
in  singing  the  second  hymn,  after  which  a  prayer  and 
benediction  closed  the  service.  The  children  soon  took 
their  departure,  well  satisfied  with  their  visit." 

To  every  human  eye,  this  might  have  appeared  the 
happiest  period  of  Dr.  Peabody's  life.  There  was  ev- 
ery thing  in  his  domestic  relations  to  make  him  happy  ; 
his  admirable  wife  exerted  a  deep  religious  influence 
herself  by  the  winning  beauty  of  her  own  example,  and 

*  Son  of  the  late  Robert  Emery,  Esq.,  of  Springfield,  and  member 
of  the  class  of  1843  in  Harvard  University.  He  was  a  young  man 
of  singular  purity  and  promise,  loved  and  honored  by  all  who  knew 
him.  He  died  at  Exeter,  N.  H.,  after  a  short  illness,  in  the  early 
part  of  bis  Senior  year,  October,  1842.  At  the  request  of  his  class- 
mates, Mr.  Peabody  delivered  a  Funeral  Address,  the  week  after  his 
death,  in  the  College  Chapel  at  Cambridge,  which  was  published. 


Xliv  MEMOIR. 

thus  powerfully  aided  that  influence  of  his  for  good  over 
the  hearts  of  others  which  it  was  his  great  ambition  to 
possess.  They  had  been  united  for  nearly  twenty  years 
by  a  deep  sympathy  and  affection,  which  were  becoming 
deeper  and  more  tender  as  they  went  farther  on  in  life. 
His  children  were  affectionate,  and  full  of  that  promise 
which  is  a  priceless  treasure  to  a  parent's  heart.  He 
enjoyed  the  cordial  respect  and  good-will  of  all  his 
Christian  brethren,  of  every  name,  and  the  devoted  love 
of  those  to  whom  he  had  ministered  so  long.  Even  his 
spirit,  not  usually  sanguine  or  very  ardent  in  his  hope, 
was  lifted  up  by  the  conviction  that  his  labors  had  not 
been  in  vain.  There  was  a  general  and  earnest  interest 
in  religious  things,  which  gave  the  assurance  of  a  richer 
harvest  in  the  time  to  come.  But  his  faith  was  yet  to 
be,  severely  tried,  and  to  be  made  perfect  through  suf- 
fering. It  was  decreed  by  Providence,  that  she  who 
had  been  the  light  of  his  existence  was  soon  to  be  with- 
drawn, and  to  go  before  him  to  the  eternal  world. 

I  have  already  spoken  generally  of  the  character  and 
influence  of  this  excellent  woman  ;  but  a  more  extended 
view  of  both  will  seem  indispensable  to  all  who  knew 
her,  and  may  not  be  without  some  interest  and  value  to 
those  who  knew  her  not.  It  may  seem  to  some  to  be 
drawn  by  a  too  partial  hand  ;  to  her  friends  it  will  cer- 
tainly appear  inadequate  and  cold.  She  was  one  of 
those  who  seem  born  to  be  loved,  who  win  the  regard 
of  strangers  at  the  first  interview,  however  transient,  and 
inspire  an  enthusiastic  affection  in  those  who  are  privi- 
leged to  be  near  her.  In  youth  she  was  eminently  lovely, 
and  the  charm  of  expression  was  undimmed  when  the 
bloom  of  youth  was  gone.     Her  manners  were  cordial, 


MEMOIR.  Xlv 

kind,  and  graceful.  Her  presence  gave  brightness  alike 
to  the  social  meeting,  the  chamber  of  sickness,  and  the 
retreat  of  poverty,  because  whatever  she  said  was  felt 
to  be  the  beautiful  expression  of  a  generous  and  sym- 
pathizing heart.  There  was  no  disguise  about  it,  —  all 
was  perfectly  frank,  open,  and  sincere.  She  never 
thought  of  herself  when  there  was  an  opportunity  of 
doing  any  thing  to  promote  the  happiness  of  others  ; 
and  all  was  done  with  a  perfect  self-forgetfulness,  a 
ready  and  unconscious  sacrifice  of  her  own  wishes  and 
convenience  to  theirs,  and  a  scrupulous  and  delicate 
regard  to  their  feelings,  which  no  jealousy  or  suspicion 
or  embittered  feeling  could  resist.  There  was  no 
scheme  of  rational  benevolence  into  which  she  did  not 
enter,  no  errand  of  mercy  which  she  was  not  ready  to  do. 
All  this  was  so  free  from  the  slightest  taint  of  affectation, 
that  it  may  have  seemed  to  many  to  be  nothing  but  the 
result  of  the  impulses  of  a  generous  nature  ;  but  those 
who  knew  her  intimately  saw  in  it  the  fruit  of  self-disci- 
pline, watchful  and  severe  ;  of  a  constant  and  most  faith- 
ful study  of  the  Scriptures,  with  the  determination  to 
make  its  precepts  the  unfailing  rule  of  daily  life  ;  of  fer- 
vent love  and  habitual  imitation  of  her  Saviour,  and  of 
private  communion  with  her  God.  It  was  thus  that  she 
shed  a  pure  and  cheering  light  around  her,  winning  hearts 
to  virtue  and  religion  by  the  beauty  of  her  holiness. 

It  ought  to  be  added,  that  the  graces  of  her  mind 
were  in  no  respect  inferior  to  the  other  portions  of  her 
character.  She  had  much  power  of  reflection,  and  wrote 
with  facility  and  elegance.  A  little  work  of  hers  writ- 
ten some  years  ago,  for  children,  attracted  much  atten- 
tion, and  is  not  yet  forgotten.  But  the  powers  of  her 
e 


Xlvi  MEMOIR. 

mind  were  applied,  with  singular  fidelity  and  earnestness, 
to  the  securing  of  her  own  improvement  and  the  perform- 
ance of  her  duty  by  the  constant  and  intelligent  study 
of  the  Scriptures  ;  to  become  familiar  with  their  spirit  as 
well  as  with  the  words  ;  to  search  into  their  whole  mean- 
ing, and  to  derive  lessons  from  them  for  the  conduct  of 
her  life.  Thus  the  views  which  she  would  sometimes 
give  of  certain  passages  were  always  judicious,  and  not 
unfrequently  original ;  and  they  were  felt  by  those  who 
heard  them  to  be  the  result  of  the  most  serious  thought 
and  the  most  earnest  inquiry. 

I  cannot  but  think  that  those  who  are  ambitious  of 
such  excellence  will  be  gratified  by  obtaining  a  nearer 
view  of  the  manner  in  which  hers  was  attained  and 
cherished.  The  desire  to  promote  the  welfare  of  others 
was  always  uppermost  in  her  mind  ;  and  if  any  thing 
in  her  example  can  be  of  aid  or  use  to  any,  she  would 
not  herself  have  desired  that  it  should  be  withheld. 
With  this  persuasion,  I  do  not  hesitate  to  set  before  the 
reader  certain  portions  of  her  private  diary. 

"  From  this  time  forward,  may  I  be  able  to  forget 
the  things  that  are  behind,  and  press  forward  to  the 
prize  of  the  mark  of  the  high  calling  of  God  in  Christ 
Jesus  our  Lord.  And  to  this  end  I  propose  these  fol- 
lowing rules  to  myself :  —  That  when  I  first  rise  in  the 
morning,  I  will  try  to  induce  the  spirit  of  grateful  praise 
and  prayer  toward  my  Heavenly  Father,  and  as  a  help 
to  a  truly  devotional  exercise  of  soul,  I  will  try  to  enter 
into  the  spirit  of  the  Psalms.  After  breakfast,  I  will 
try  to  concentrate  my  thoughts  on  the  authority  of  God, 
that  I  may  feel  more  strongly  my  obligation  to  render 
a  filial  obedience   to  his  will,  and  devote  myself  in  all 


MEMOIR.  Xlvii 

things  to  his  purposes,  and  not  my  own.  And  to  this 
end  I  will  read  a  portion  of  my  Saviour's  history,  in 
order  to  obtain  an  intimate  perception  of  his  success  in 
this  obedience. 

"  To-day  it  has  occurred  to  me,  that,  to  enter  into  the 
spirit  of  the  Psalms,  the  most  effectual  aid  would  be 
derived  from  adopting  the  habit  of  the  Psalmist  in  tracing 
every  circumstance  of  our  life  dfrectly  to  God,  and  cul- 
tivating that  familiar  reference  to  him  which  would  soon 
make  us  perceive  his  agency  where  now  we  regard  it 
not.  This  seems  to  have  been  the  origin  of  David's 
piety,  and  to  have  supplied  him  with  a  continual  flood  of 
devotional  feeling." 

"  And  now  for  the  application  of  our  Saviour's  ex- 
ample. Can  we  turn  to  it  without  seeing  our  own  way 
clearly  pointed  out  ?  He  had  a  mission  from  his  God. 
So  has  each  one  of  us.  Does  it  seem  presumptuous 
to  compare  the  two  ?  His  was  infinitely  beyond  what 
we  can  have  to  do.  Yes,  —  but  his  was  suited  to  his 
capacity,  and  ours  is  adapted  to  ours.  How  did  he 
prepare  to  accomplish  it  ?  By  giving  all  the  powers  of 
his  soul  to  a  private  intercourse  with  God,  that  he  might 
discover  clearly  what  his  Father  would  have  him  to  do. 
Cannot  we  take  the  same  course,  and  will  it  not  result 
in  a  clear  perception  of  all  our  duties  ?  When  the  will 
of  God  was  ascertained,  his  next  effort  was  to  dedicate 
himself  heart  and  soul  to  that  will  ;  thenceforth  he  had 
no  will  of  his  own.  What  God  gave  him  to  do  was 
the  business  of  his  life  ;  what  he  saw  the  Father  do 
was  his  principle  of  action.  Do  we  say  we  cannot  see 
what  the  Father  does  ?  If  we  devote  our  spirits  to  the 
task  with  that  single  aim,   may  we  not  see  the  divine 


xlviii  MEMOIR. 

laws  by  which  God  acts  in  the  natural  and  moral  world  ? 
May  we  not  see  them,  so  as  to  be  able  to  make  them 
our  own  governing  principles  ?  Will  not  a  spiritual  ap- 
prehension of  the  love  of  God,  for  instance,  follow  an 
intense  application  of  our  souls  to  him  in  order  to  dis- 
cover it  ?  Else  what  means  our  Saviour's  exhortation, 
'  Be  ye  one  with  me,  as  I  am  one  with  my  Father,' 
and  the  words,  '  I  have  left  you  an  example  that  you 
should  follow  my  steps.'  " 

"  To  give  permanence  and  reality  to  the  impressions 
of  duty  which  enlighten  the  hour  of  reflection,  and  to 
make  them  serve  me  in  the  labor  and  heat  of  the  day, 
I  will  set  them  down,  and  in  that  way  try  to  bind  them 
upon  my  heart.  In  my  treatment  of  my  children,  and 
such  as  are  committed  to  my  care,  I  should  make  all  my 
endeavours  conspire  to  one  aim  ;  that  they  may  be  gems 
in  the  crown  of  their  Saviour  at  the  last  day  ;  that  he 
may  present  them  to  his  Father  and  their  Father,  as 
fitted  for  his  presence  by  their  nurture  in  the  princi- 
ples of  his  morality  and  the  affections  of  his  life.  The 
duties  of  life,  —  I  ought  to  allow  no  distaste  to  stand  a 
moment  against  their  performance  ;  but  consider  them 
as  the  work  given  me  to  do,  and  reflect  that  no  work  is 
given  me  that  is  not  intended  to  strengthen  some  princi- 
ple or  habit  which  is  to  form  my  soul  for  its  immortal 
duties." 

"  He  shall  say  unto  them,  '  Inasmuch  as  ye  have  done 
it  unto  one  of  the  least  of  these  my  brethren,  ye  have 
done  it  unto  me.'  Have  we  ever  known,  in  our  ex- 
perience of  the  various  relations  of  life,  a  sympathy  like 
this  ?  The  fondest  parent  may  feel  something  akin  to 
it  in  relation  to  a  very  dear  child  ;  but  mark  his  words, 


MEMOIR.  xliX 

—  '  one  of  the  least  of  these  my  brethren.'  It  takes  the 
very  strongest  tie  of  human  hearts  with  the  very  first 
object  of  their  attachment,  to  form  a  comparison  with 
his  feelings  for  the  least  deserving  of  all. 

"  Does  not  this  expression  of  our  Saviour  throw 
some  light  on  the  relation  between  us  and  him.  Can  an 
intimacy  be  conceived  of  more  perfect  than  this  ?  Could 
any  language  describe  a  more  disinterested  and  compre- 
hensive friendship,  or  a  sensibility  to  another's  welfare  so 
immediate  and  personal  ?  Is  it  not  really  being  the  vine, 
of  which  we  are  the  branches  ? 

"  O,  why  cannot  we  reciprocate  that  friendship,  and 
really  be  in  him  as  he  is  in  us  ?     Every  human  being 
ought  to  be  invested,  to  our  eye,  with  the  sacredness  of 
our  Saviour's  anxious  love,  and  that    sentiment   should 
modify  all  our. feeling  toward  him.     We  would  not  speak 
unkindly  of  an  abandoned  person  in  the  presence  of  his 
father  and   his   mother.      And  if  we  had  any  just  con- 
ceptions of  our  Saviour's  relation  to  the  human  family, 
how  much  more    delicate  would   be   our   deference  for 
him  !    If  so  great  kindness  towards  the  wretched  and  the 
destitute  warms  his  heart,  what  constant  arrows  must  we 
be  inflicting  on  him  by  our  cruel  judgments  and  incon- 
siderate unkindness  to  those  for  whom  he  died  \     Truly 
we  crucify  him  again.      And  must  not  such  wounds  from 
those  who  know  and  profess  to  love  him  be  far  more 
grievous  to   him,  than  those   inflicted   upon  him   by  an 
excited  and  ignorant  people,  who    '  knew  not  what  they 
did.'     Truly,   even  his  sweet  spirit  of  forgiveness  can- 
not say  the  same  of  us. 

"Indeed,  we  are  Christians  only  in  name,  —  the  re- 
ality has  hardly  dawned  upon  the  world.     Until  we  un- 
e* 


1  MEMOIR. 

derstand  his  love,  and  reciprocate  it  in  suitable  feeling 
and  action,  we  are  barren  of  the  effects  of  Christianity." 
"  I  am  desirous  to  ascertain  with  distinctness  what  my 
duty  is  for  the  day.  It  is  one  of  those  days  of  compara- 
tive leisure,  when  no  immediate  call  seems  upon  me  for 
active  employment  or  spiritual  exertion.  I  find  myself 
not  indisposed  for  activity  and  having  a  wakeful  interest 
for  my  religious  improvement,  —  so  that  I  desire  to  be 
found  in  the  service  of  my  Master,  but  see  no  reason  to 
suppose  that  I  shall  accomplish  any  thing  for  myself  or 
others  ;  for,  having  no  definite  purpose  as  an  object  for 
the  day,  it  will  be  likely  to  pass  away  in  unprofitable 
thoughts.  This  waste  of  such  days  distresses  me,  be- 
cause 1  know  the  time  will  come  when  such  a  portion 
of  time  will  seem  invaluable  to  me,  and  I  shall  see  dis- 
tinctly before  me  objects  of  infinite  importance,  which 
time  only  is  wanting  to  mature.  Here,  then,  is  the  time  ; 
—  where  are  these  objects  ?  Can  they  not  be  called  up 
to  the  inquiring  soul  ready  to  embrace  them  ?  Gracious 
Father  !  one  who  longs  to  be  truly  thy  servant  in  all 
things  humbly  waits  upon  thee  at  this  lime,  wishing  to 
see  the  exact  work  which  thou  hast  given  her  to  do. 
She  is  in  time, —  which  is  passing  away.  She  fills  re- 
lations to  thee  and  to  her  fellow-beings  which  have 
their  legitimate  obligations.  She  must  have  something 
to  do  in  this  place,  and  at  this  time,  which  can  be  done 
by  no  other  person,  and  at  no  other  time.  What,  then, 
is  her  duty  for  this  day  ?  She  would  not  float  at  random 
even  on  the  waters  of  life.  No,  —  she  would  rather 
labor  to  attain  her  destined  harbour,  that  when  the  even- 
ing comes  she  may  be  ready  to  wait  on  thee,  to  seek 
thy  judgment  on  her  labor." 


MEMOIR. 


Mrs.  Peabody's  health  was  not  firm,  and  previously 
to  the  summer  of  1S43  there  had  been  an  evident  fail- 
ure of  her  strength.  She  was,  however,  so  constantly 
active  and  employed,  and  preserved  at  all  times  so 
much  cheerfulness  and  animation  of  manner,  that  no 
fears  were  entertained  of  her  early  departure.  The 
summer  passed  away  with  its  usual  course  of  occupation 
and  enjoyment,  —  the  occupations  of  social  and  do- 
mestic life,  and  the  enjoyment  of  the  society  of  many 
friends,  as  well  as  of  a  large  and  interesting  family. 
This  was,  perhaps,  the  period  to  which  her  husband 
would  have  pointed,  as  the  happiest  season  of  his  life. 
But  the  change  was  soon  to  come  which  was  to  involve 
all  in  darkness,  except  that  religious  faith  which  did  not 
fail  him  in  the  hour  of  his  sorrow. 

Late  in  the  month  of  September,  Mrs.  Peabody  was 
attacked  by  illness,  apparently  so  slight  as  hardly  to  re- 
quire the  aid  of  a  physician.  But  in  a  day  or  two,  it 
assumed  a  more  serious  character  ;  not  sufficiently  so, 
however,  to  give  occasion  for  alarm.  She  appeared 
herself,  very  early  in  her  sickness,  to  have  a  presenti- 
ment that  she  should  not  recover,  and  employed  herself 
in  making  arrangements  in  anticipation  of  the  final  change  ; 
and  one  evening  asked  to  have  all  the  children  come 
into  her  chamber,  that  their  parents  might  together  con- 
secrate them  in  prayer  to  God.  After  this,  and,  indeed, 
through  her  whole  illness,  a  sweet  cheerfulness  and 
peace  seemed  to  take  possession  of  her  soul.  It  was 
soon  found  that  the  remedies  which  were  applied  could 
give  her  no  relief,  and  that  her  hour  was  nigh.  When 
her  danger  was  made  known  to  her,  a  heavenly  beauty 
spread  itself  over  her  countenance ;  her  spirit  was  ready 


Hi  MEMOIR. 

and  anxious  to  begin  its  upward  flight.  But  it  is  need- 
less to  dwell  upon  a  scene  which  is  described  by  him 
who  was  thus  bereft  in  words  which  will  presently  be 
given. 

On  the  4th  of  October,  her  gentle  and  pure  spirit 
went  back  to  God.  It  was  on  a  beautiful  afternoon, 
when  the  warm  breath  of  summer  scarcely  moved  the 
red  leaves  of  autumn,  that  her  remains  were  laid  in  the 
cemetery  where  those  whom  she  deeply  loved  are  now 
resting  by  her  side. 

Great  apprehension  was  entertained  by  Dr.  Pea- 
body's  friends  lest  the  effects  of  this  severe  and  unex- 
pected blow  upon  a  frame  so  delicate  and  a  mind  so 
sensitive  as  his  would  give  them  an  occasion  of  fresh 
sorrow.  She  on  whom  he  depended,  —  how  much  he 
could  not  know  till  then,  —  who  had  relieved  the  pres- 
sure of  his  cares,  and  to  whom  his  heart  was  bound  by 
the  fondest  affection  that  the  spirit  while  on  earth  can 
know,  was  taken  from  his  sight,  and  a  deep  darkness 
settled  on  his  earthly  hopes  and  prospects.  But  in  this 
moment  of  fear  and  of  sorrow  his  heart  did  not  fail. 
Never  did  his  religious  faith  shine  forth  with  so  bright  and 
sustaining  power  as  then.  The  light  seemed  to  come 
to  him  from  the  eternal  world.  He  felt  that  he  could 
lean  upon  the  Everlasting  Arm  ;  the  peace  that  passeth 
understanding  visited  his  soul.  He  found  the  inspiration 
of  his  Saviour's  words  of  love,  and  obtained  the  strength 
and  consolation  which  he  needed,  by  communion  with 
his  God.  It  is  with  the  view  of  throwing  light  upon  his 
own  character  and  the  varied  excellence  of  her  whom 
he  had  lost,  that  the  words  which  he  addressed  to  his 
society  on  the  Sabbath  following  her   death   are  here 


MEMOIR. 


liii 


given  at  length.  They  were  uttered  extemporaneously, 
but  were  subsequently  written  down  at  the  desire  of  his 
friends. 

There  was  something  in  the  circumstances  under 
which  they  were  delivered  which  rendered  them  pecu- 
liarly impressive.  It  was  on  the  usual  day  of  the  com- 
munion service,  when  it  had  been  his  habit,  in  the  place 
of  the  usual  sermon,  to  make  a  short  address.  He 
stood  there,  in  the  midst  of  long-tried  friends,  every  one 
of  whom  was  a  sharer  in  his  grief  and  was  bound  to 
him  by  the  deepest  sympathy.  Worn  and  heart-broken 
as  he  was,  he  felt  that  he  could  then  speak  to  them  with 
a  power  drawn  from  the  scenes  through  which  he  had 
passed  ;  and  he  did  speak  to  them  from  the  fulness  of 
his  heart,  —  with  an  eloquence  which  those  who  heard 
it  will  remember  to  their  latest  day. 

"  It  seems  a  long  time,  my  friends,  since  I  spoke 
with  you  last.  It  seems  as  if  winters  of  desolation  had 
been  crowded  into  a  few  short,  stern  days  of  misery, 
since  I  spoke  with  you  last.  With  that  vacant  place 
before  me,  with  one  thought  upon  my  heart,  —  O,  how 
heavy  on  my  heart  !  —  I  cannot  avoid  the  subject  of 
my  sorrow.  There  is  no  reason  why  I  should.  You 
will  not  wish  that  I  should.  But,  strangers  as  we  are 
to  our  own  hearts,  I  feel  that  it  is  not  to  make  a  display 
of  mourning  that  I  address  you  thus,  nor  is  it  to  ask 
for  greater  sympathy.  There  cannot  be  greater  sympa- 
thy than  I  have  had  from  the  kind,  warm  hearts  around 
me.  No.  It  is  because  there  is  a  word  which  I  am 
bound  to  speak,  and  which,  therefore,  I  have  the  power 
to  speak. 

"  But  we  must  turn  a  moment  from  all  other  thoughts 


liv  MEMOIR. 

to  the  one  suggested  by  those  words  of  heavenly  com- 
fort which  have  just  been  read.  They  present  the  im- 
age of  the  Saviour  sitting  in  awful  majesty  within  the 
very  shadow  of  death.  Yet  all  his  concern  is  for  others  ; 
he  takes  up  their  burden  when  almost  sinking  under  his 
own.  It  is  believed  that  those  who  are  to  die  a  violent 
death  have  a  peculiar  and  sad  expression  ;  such,  I  am 
sure,  he  must  have  had  that  night,  and  they  who  were 
near  him  must  have  seen  it  upon  his  brow.  With  the 
short  and  bloody  path  in  which  he  is  to  travel  to  the 
cross,  —  with  the  black  cross  itself  before  him,  he  says 
to  his  disciples,  'Let  not  your  hearts  be'  troubled.' 
He  comforts  them  ;  he  gives  peace,  his  own  divine 
peace,  to  their  souls.  At  length  he  rises,  with  the  words, 
'  That  the  world  may  know  that  I  love  the  Father  ;  and 
as, the  Father  gave  me  commandment,  even  so  I  do. 
Arise,  let  us  go  hence.'  And  he  goes  forth  serenely  to 
his  doom.  We  can  see  that  pale  procession,  in  the  chill 
moonlight,  which  falls  upon  the  leaves  by  the  way-side 
and  suggests  the  figure  of  the  vine  ;  and  thus  having 
loved  his  own,  he  loves  them  unto  the  end.  Man  of 
sorrows,  well  didst  thou  finish  the  work  that  was  given 
thee   to   do  ! 

"  But  the  fear  of  death  was  more  easily  overcome 
than  some  other  feelings.  After  the  mighty  effort  which 
he  had  made  to  suppress  his  own  emotions  for  the  sake 
of  others,  a  horror  of  deep  darkness  came  over  him, 
which  was  infinitely  worse  than  the  fear  of  death.  Do 
not  ask  what  it  was.  Words  could  not  describe  it.  It 
came  partly  from  the  exhaustion  of  the  system  ;  still 
more  from  a  rushing  of  confused  and  struggling  feelings, 
which  poured  in  like   a  trampling  crowd  upon  his  soul. 


MEMOIR.  lv 

Any  one  who  has  been  worn  with  suffering  may  form 
some  idea  of  what  it  was.  This  horror  it  was  which 
for  a  moment  overcame  and  crushed  him  to  the  ground. 
His  agony  was  not  his  misery,  but  the  strife  with  his 
misery,  —  the  effort  which  he  made  to  bring  his  feelings 
into  harmony  with  his  Father's  will.  As  the  shudder- 
ing chill  comes  over  him,  he  cries  from  the  dust,  '  O 
Father  !  if  it  be  possible,  let  this  cup  pass  from  me  ! ' 
Again,  the  overwhelming  passion  bears  away  all  resist- 
ance. Again,  he  implores  to  be  spared ;  and  the 
bloody  sweat  —  for  such  things  have  been  —  is  wrung 
from  his  burning  brow.  But  soon  the  warfare  is  accom- 
plished ;  the  storm  in  his  breast  is  over  ;  he  lifts  his 
head,  radiant  with  submission,  saying,  '  The  cup  which 
my  Father  hath  given  me,  shall  I  not  drink  it  ?  Father  ! 
thy  will  be  done  !  ' 

"  And  this  was  for  us.  We  are  all  to  die.  Some  of 
us  are  to  pass  through  scenes  of  anguish,  —  not  like  his, 
O,  not  like  his  !  but  bitter  enough  to  shake  all  the  firm- 
ness of  the  soul.  Then  they  must  struggle  as  he  did  to 
bear  it  with  hearts  resigned  and  true.  Then  they  must 
pray  as  he  did.  They  will  need  no  visible  angel  from 
heaven  to  strengthen  them,  for  the  Lord  Jesus  himself 
will  bend  over  them  with  the  deepest  tenderness,  not 
wishing  that  they  may  be  spared,  for  that  would  be  to 
lose  a  blessing,  but  encouraging  them  to  be  faithful,  and 
so  to  reach  the  full  salvation  of  God. 

"  And  now,  the  fear  of  death  !  How  far  can  man 
rise  above  it  ?  I  mean,  when  it  comes  full  before  him. 
For  there  are  many  dying  men  whose  minds  are  clear, 
but  who  are  such  utter  strangers  to  God  and  eternity, 
that  they  are  not  troubled,  and  have  no  bands,  fearing 


lvi  MEMOIR. 

nothing,  because  they  know  not  what  it  is  to  die.  But 
when  one  realizes  all  that  is  before  him,  and  his  soul  is 
profoundly  impressed  with  the  change  which  he  is  pass- 
ing through,  can  he  rise  above  it  ?  Can  he  speak  peace 
to  others  with  an  untroubled  heart  of  his  own  ?  He 
can ;  —  he  can.  Others  since  the  Saviour  have  been 
able  through  him  to  do  it,  and  if  we  are  faithful,  others 
will  do  it  again. 

"  And  now  I  turn  to  myself,  or  rather  to  my  depart- 
ed friend.  In  the  beginning  of  her  sickness,  she  asked 
me  to  attend  with  her  to  some  arrangements  which  would 
be  necessary  in  case  she  should  not  recover.  Some 
time  after  this,  she  asked  me  to  perform  some  duty  for 
her  unless  she  should  recover.  Those  words  struck  to 
my  heart.  I  begged  her  not  to  speak  so  again,  but  she 
said  we  were  prepared  for  every  thing.  Her  anxiety  was, 
that  no  obligation  should  be  forgotten  ;  and  she  went 
through  every  thing  with  that  perfect  system  which  she 
had  always  conscientiously  observed.  The  fierce  dis- 
ease went  on  ;  every  thing  that  skill  and  kindness  could 
do  was  tried  in  vain,  till  early  in  the  fatal  day  she  ob- 
served a  change  in  the  manner  of  those  about  her.  She 
wished  to  know  what  we  feared,  and  when  she  was  told, 
a  light  as  of  morning  came  over  her  face  ;  it  was  per- 
fectly resplendent  with  a  smile  of  beautiful  gladness. 
She  clasped  her  hands,  saying,  '  Is  it  possible  ?  Am  I 
so  early  to  be  blessed  ?  Shall  I  so  soon  be  with  my 
Saviour  and  my  God  ? '  But  her  thoughts,  as  usual, 
turned  at  once  from  herself.  She  was  anxious  to  re- 
deem the  time  for  the  sake  of  others.  She  called  us 
singly  near  to  her,  and,  with  many  words  of  affectionate 
counsel,  bade  us  each  farewell.     She  earnestly  desired 


MEMOIR.  lvii 

to  see  as  many  of  her  friends  as  possible  ;  for  death 
itself  could  not  make  such  a  heart  cold.     They  came, 

—  they  stood  near  her  bed  :  and  many  who  were  pres- 
ent can  describe  the  scene.  I  am  confident  they  will 
remember  it  ;  they  will  think  of  it  in  their  own  closing 
hours.  One  thing  was  most  of  all  impressive  :  she  did 
not  express  one  word  of  anxiety  for  her  family,  nor  for  the 
one  that  was  nearest  to  her  heart.  It  never  entered  her 
mind  that  God  would  not  care  for  them.  Her  whole 
manner,  her  voice,  her  smile,  seemed  to  breathe  of  the 
eternal  world.  I  cannot  divest  myself  of  the  conviction, 
that  the  corruptible  had  already  put  on  incorruption,  and 
the  mortal  immortality.  And  so  she  fell  asleep.  After  a 
few  words  of  inexpressible  tenderness,  she  closed  her 
dying  eyes.  Surely  on  my  eyes  never  opened  a  scene 
of  equal  glory  ! 

"  But  I  pass  from  this  wonderful  scene.  It  cannot 
be  described  to  those  who  did  not  see  it,  and  those  who 
did  see  it  will  never  forget.  I  would  ask,  or  rather  I 
would  say,  whence  came  this  serenity  in  the  dying  hour. 
It  was  nothing  supernatural  ;  it  was  the  direct,  the  natu- 
ral, the  inevitable  result  of  that  love  of  God  and  man, 
which  she  had  so  faithfully  cherished  in  her  soul.  Of 
her  benevolence,  I  must  say,  —  why  should  I  not  say  it  ? 

—  her  heart  seemed  pure,  warm,  and  all-embracing  as 
the  heaven  ;  it  was  always  my  admiration.  '  It  is  high,  I 
cannot  attain  unto  it,'  was  ever  the  feeling  which  it  in- 
spired. Never  indifferent,  —  never  discouraged,  —  never 
weary  ;  always  rejoicing  with  them  that  rejoiced,  and 
weeping  with  them  that  wept.  I  do  not  believe  that  a 
spirit  more  entirely  free  from  the  stain  of  selfishness 
ever  dwelt  in  this  world  below ;  loving  her  friends  most 

/ 


lviii  MEMOIR. 

fondly,  and  at  the  same  time  loving  all.  Not  one  shad- 
ow of  coldness,  jealousy,  or  suspicion  ever  darkened 
her  clear  breast.  Of  her  devotion,  I  must  say  what 
others  were  less  likely  to  know,  that  she  labored,  and 
watched,  and  prayed,  to  make  it  what  it  was.  It  was 
her  daily,  constant  care  to  keep  it  alive.  All  the  wants 
of  the  physical  system  were  kept  in  stern  subjection  ; 
self-indulgence  was  a  thing  which  she  never  seemed  to 
know.  Every  morning  it  was  her  first  joy  to  retire  to 
her  closet  to  read  the  Scriptures,  to  pour  out  her  soul 
to  God,  to  spread  before  herself  all  the  duties  of  the 
day.  When  she  sat  in  her  chamber,  the  wo  I'd  of  God 
was  always  near  her,  and  at  evening,  exhausted  as  she 
always  was  with  incessant  activity,  '  she  summed  the  ac- 
tions of  the  day  each  night  before  she  slept.'  It  was 
impossible,  that,  living  near  to  God  as  she  did,  she 
should  go  a  stranger  to  the  land  of  souls.  She  could 
have  no  other  than  '  a  golden  set.'  Such  a  life  must  be 
crowned  with  an  appropriate  and  inspiring  close.  I  en- 
treat you  to  remember  the  path  in  which  she  travelled  to 
the  tomb.  Be  open  as  day  to  sympathy  ;  go  about  do- 
ing good  ;  be  faithful  and  confiding  to  your  God,  and 
you  will  die  the  death  of  the  righteous,  and  your  last 
end  will  be  like  theirs. 

"  And  now  I  would  say,  with  respect  to  the  agony 
through  which  our  Saviour  passed,  it  is  one  which 
some  of  his  followers  at  some  time  of  their  life  will  be 
called  to  struggle  through.  What  is  it  but  the  effort 
to  bring  the  whole  heart  into  submission.  It  is  not 
easily  done.  There  are  some  blessings  which  it  is  bit- 
ter as  death  to  surrender.  You  lean  upon  them  ;  you 
depend  upon  them  ;  when  they  are  threatened  it  seems 


MEMOIR.  HX 

perfectly  impossible  for  you  to  let  them  go.  And  when 
the  conviction  comes  upon  you  like  an  earthquake, 
'  Behold,  your  house  is  left  unto  you  desolate,'  you 
feel  as  if  it  were  no  use  to  talk  of  resignation.  You 
cannot  have  it  so  ;  resigned  you  cannot  be.  You  clasp 
the  Bible  to  your  heart  ;  you  make  a  mighty  effort  to 
push  aside  the  ghastly  vision,  and  to  see  it  upon  the 
heavenly  side.  Sometimes  you  seem  to  succeed  ;  you 
struggle  out  of  the  flood.  Then  comes  the  overwhelming 
reality  upon  you,  and  down  your  heart  sinks  again,  till, 
just  at  the  moment  when  the  waters  seem  closing  over 
you,  the  hand  of  mercy  reaches  down  to  the  helpless 
hand  uplifted  from  below,  and  you  are  saved  ;  you  say, 
'  Not  as  I  will,  but  as  thou  wilt ' ;  a  peace  that  passeth 
understanding  spreads  over  your  spirit.  You  can  bear 
every  thing,  and  are  ready  for  every  thing  ;  strong  in 
the  Lord  and  the  power  of  his  might,  you  can  welcome 
whatever  comes,  not  with  submission  merely,  but  with 
a  heart  overflowing  with  love. 

"  If  the  day  should  ever  come  when  you  shall  lose  the 
queen  of  your  heart,  —  if  you  must  see  those  eyes  closing 
which  have  for  years  been  turned  upon  you  with  watch- 
ful, anxious,  never  weary  love,  —  if  you  must  see  that 
hand  pale  and  motionless,  which  in  sickness  was  pressed 
affectionately  upon  your  brow,  and  smoothed  the  pillow 
for  your  head,  —  if  you  are  deprived  of  the  heart  which 
in  all  joys  and  sorrows  answered  faithfully,  fervently,  to 
your  own,  —  see  a  vacant  place  at  your  fireside,  and 
feel  the  dreariness  of  death  throughout  your  dwelling, 
till  it  makes  you  sick  at  heart,  —  are  constantly  look- 
ing and  listening  for  the  familiar  step  and  voice,  and  as 
often  sadly  reminded   that  you   never  shall  hear   them 


JX  MEMOIR. 

again,  —  if  this  dark  day  should  come  to  you,  —  far  dis- 
tant from  you  may  it  be,  —  but  should  it  come,  you  have 
a  right  to  the  warmest  wishes  and  prayers  of  my  heart  ; 
and  the  dearest  wish  I  can  express,  the  kindest  prayer 
I  can  offer,  is,  that  God  may  be  as  present  to  your  heart 
in  solitude  and  sorrow  as  he  has  been  and  is  now  in 
mine. 

"  It  is  but  natural  that  I  should  now  look  back  upon  the 
consolations  which  I  have  offered  you  in  your  sorrow, 
and  I  find  that  I  have  not  dwelt  sufficiently  on  that  one 
which  embraces  all  the  rest ;  I  mean  the  blessed  thought 
of  God.  I  am  not  conscious  now  of  deriving  my  sup- 
port from  the  thought  of  meeting  my  best  friend  again. 
It  is  a  blessing,  but  it  is  not  the  support  ;  the  support  is 
the  sympathy  of  God  and  the  Saviour,  and  their  sus- 
taining presence  in  the  soul.  I  feel  that  they  are  with 
me.  My  heart  desires  no  more.  I  have  not  a  single 
wish  to  recall  her  who  was  the  light  of  my  life.  My 
will  is  in  perfect  harmony  with  my  Father's.  Naturally 
fearful  and  distrusting  though  I  am,  there  is  no  darkness 
before  me,  there  is  no  darkness  around  me.  All  is  di- 
vinely bright  above  me.  Without  a  single  misgiving  or 
doubt,  I  shall  take  my  shoes  on  my  feet,  and  my  staff 
in  my  hand,  and  go  in  the  way  of  duty,  desolate  though 
it  is,  I  trust  with  more  faithfulness  than  ever,  so  long  as 
it  pleases  God. 

"  I  rejoice,  therefore,  to  remember  that  I  have  long 
implored  you  to  turn  your  hearts  to  God.  I  knew  that 
the  willingness  to  do  this  was  a  blessing,  but  how  great 
a  blessing  I  never  knew  till  now.  It  can  make  the 
death-bed  and  house  of  mourning  bright  ;  it  gives  peace 
of  which  I  never  could  have  dreamed  to  the  wounded 


MEMOIR.  lxi 

and  suffering  heart.  I  do  entreat  you,  then,  to  receive 
this  blessing  ;  the  time  will  come  when  you  will  feel 
your  want  of  it,  if  you  do  not  now.  There  is  no  sac- 
rifice which  I  would  not  make,  there  is  nothing  which  I 
would  not  do  or  suffer,  if  I  could  induce  every  one  be- 
fore me  to  turn  without  reserve  to  the  Rock  of  our  sal- 
vation. I  do  beseech  you,  then,  to  open  your  hearts  to 
the  heavenly  influences  ;  let  the  love  of  your  Heavenly 
Father  awaken  in  your  hearts  some  answering  feeling 
of  love. 

"  So  shall  you  be  happy  in  life,  and  thrice  blessed  in 
death,  like  the  friend  who  has  gone  before  you.  And 
now  may  God  bless  you  !  May  he  lift  up  the  light  of 
his  countenance  upon  you  !  May  he  give  you  peace, 
such  peace  as  she  now  enjoys,  for  evermore  !  " 

We  copy  the  following  passage  from  a  letter  to  a 
friend,  dated  October  11th,  1843. 

"  I  have  been  severely  tried  since  I  wrote  to  you, 
with  the  necessity  for  making  some  efforts  which  I  would 
gladly  have  shunned,  —  such  as  that  of  speaking  oh  the 
Sabbath.  I  felt  bound  to  do  it,  though  conscious  that  I 
should  appear  weak  and  foolish  ;  —  there  was  something 
to  be  said  which  I  alone  could  say.  The  circumstances 
were  arranged  with  the  usual  kindness  ;  the  rain  was  so 
severe  as  to  keep  away  all  who  had  not  a  particular  in- 
terest in  attending.  The  other  services  were  soothing 
and  grateful  to  my  feelings,  and  however  I  may  have  ex- 
posed myself,  I  fully  explained  the  life  and  religious  his- 
tory of  my  dearest  one,  so  that  no  one  could  say  it  was 
through  gifts  of  nature  or  peculiar  blessing  that  she  tri- 
umphed over  death  as  she  did.  No,  it  was  by  prayer 
and  labor  that  she  fought  the  good  fight.     Her  Sabbath 

J* 


lxii  MEMOIR. 

followed  six  days  of  labor,  not  of  rest,  and  I  do  most 
earnestly  pray  that  all  may  remember  what  made  her  the 
noble  creature  that  she  was  ;  —  going  about  doing  good, 
and  living  near  to  God." 

Those  who  have  known  sorrow  will  not  object  to  the 
insertion  here  of  some  portions  of  his  diary  and  private 
letters.  To  some  it  may  appear  as  if  the  publication  of 
any  part  of  the  diary  upon  which,  when  he  lived,  no 
human  eye  ever  rested,  were  like  revealing  those  sacred 
depths  of  sorrow  and  devotion,  into  which  not  even  the 
fondest  affection  and  sympathy  should  be  allowed  to  pen- 
etrate. But  we  remember  his  own  sentiments,  as  we 
heard  them  expressed  with  regard  to  similar  disclosures. 
He  felt  that  they  should  not  be  withheld  if  they  could 
benefit  any  one  spiritually.  "  What  is  it,"  he  would 
say,  "  which  makes  us  shrink  from  imparting  our  deep- 
est personal  experiences  but  a  feeling  of  self,  which  is 
not  known  to  the  disembodied  spirit.  When  we  have 
left  this  world,  we  shall  only  be  anxious  that  our  trials 
and  conflicts  may  aid  others  in  their  preparation  for 
heaven."  Hoping  that,  from  this  touching  and  inspiring 
picture  of  sorrow  and  of  faith,  some  persons  may  feel 
strengthened  and  consoled  under  the  pressure  of  sim- 
ilar afflictions,  we  give  the  following  extracts  from  the 
diary. 

"October,  1843.  It  was  a  heavy  day  when  I  followed 
my  beloved  Amelia  to  the  grave.  At  the  funeral  ser- 
vice, in  the  church,  they  sang  her  favorite  hymns,  — 
'  Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul,'  and  '  Rise,  my  soul,  and 
stretch  thy  wings.'  I  was  glad  that  her  form  was  laid 
where  the  communion-table  usually  stands,  that  I  might 
have  that  powerful  and  affecting  remembrance  connected 


memoir.  lxiii 

with  the  place.  At  the  grave,  where  a  great  number 
were  assembled,  they  sang,  '  There  Is  a  land  of  pure 
delight.'  And  now  she  lies  in  those  beautiful  grounds. 
How  I  bless  God,  who  disposed  me  to  interest  myself 
so  much  in  the  preparation  of  the  cemetery  !  For  all  that 
I  have  ever  done  for  it,  verily  1  have  my  reward." 

"  And  now  it  begins  to  open  upon  me  why  I  needed 
this  terrible  blow.  Had  we  been  laid  in  the  same  grave, 
as  I  could  have  wished  and  prayed,  had  it  been  right, 
we  should  not  have  been  united  in  death.  She  was  too 
far  above  me.  She  was  so  heavenly-minded,  so  char- 
itable, so  thoroughly  excellent,  that,  dear  as  I  was  to  her 
generous  heart,  I  could  not  have  stood  at  her  side.  But 
now,  perhaps,  under  the  stern  teaching  of  death,  in  sol- 
itary communion  with  my  own  heart,  with  the  inspira- 
tion of  her  spiritual  presence,  with  the  light  of  her  mem- 
ory before  me,  I  may  do  the  duties  assigned  me,  and 
thus  form  such  a  character,  that,  when  I  go,  she  may 
stand  ready,  with  her  sweet  smile  and  open  arms  of  love, 
to  welcome  me  to  the  skies. 

"  But  I  bless  God  that  in  the  earlier  days  of  my  sol- 
itude and  sorrow  I  did  not  derive  my  support  from  such 
thoughts  as  this.  God  was  present  to  me,  —  I  realized 
that  he  was  with  me,  —  and  what  could  I  want  beside  ? 
In  a  condition  as  helpless  and  hopeless  as  possible,  I 
was  supported  by  the  Everlasting  Arm,  as  if  it  were  vis- 
ibly extended  from  the  skies.  I  thought  not  of  re- 
union. I  was  perfectly  resigned.  I  had  no  wish  to  alter 
in  the  least  what  was  appointed  me.  '  The  cup  which 
my  Father  hath  given  me,  shall  I  not  drink  it  ?  '  was 
the  language  of  my  soul.  All  these  thoughts  of  conso- 
lation were  present,  no  doubt,   but  they  came  not  by 


lxiv  MEMOIR. 

themselves ;  they  seemed,  like  all  other  glorious,  happy, 
and  inspiring  thoughts,  to  be  assembled  in  the  single 
thought  of  God,  and  to  float  in  the  great  ocean  of  his 
boundless  love." 

"  God  will  not  leave  his  work  half  done.  Whether 
we  shall  have  his  continued  presence  or  not  depends 
upon  ourselves,  and  as  often  as  I  draw  near  to  him,  I 
believe  he  will  draw  near  to  me.  If  the  cares  of  life 
draw  us  down  from  our  elevated  state,  our  feeling  can- 
not be  right  ;  we  must  be  ready  to  do,  as  well  as  to  suf- 
fer, what  pleases  God.  May  I  be  faithful  !  May  I  re- 
ceive all  the  cares  which  come  upon  me  as  plart  of  the 
discipline  which  my  character  requires  !  The  chief 
difficulty  before  me  is  the  management  of  my  children. 
They  are  young,  needing  patience,  firmness,  and  dis- 
cretion, but,  more  than  all,  a  forbearing  spirit  of  love. 
May  I  have  that  spirit  !  May  I  be  saved  from  every 
impatient  action,  every  harsh  word,  from  every  mani- 
festation of  haste  and  displeasure.  May  I  act  according 
to  my  conviction,  —  for  I  really  believe  that  love  is  the 
only  means  of  influence,  —  it  is  the  only  power  that  can 
be  applied.  Power  over  them  we  cannot  have  after  a 
certain  age.  May  I  not  have  power  within  them  ?  I 
have  not  begun  right  ;  but  I  shall  retrace  my  steps.  I 
shall  feel  that  angel  is  smiling  upon  me  when  I  make 
any  effort,  and  I  shall  feel  that  her  smile  reflects  upon 
me  the  blessing  of  her  Father  and  my  Father,  of  her 
God  and  my  God." 

From  a  letter  to  a  friend  we  extract  the  following  :  — 

"  I  do  not  find  it  the  least  of  my  consolations,  that 

we  have   a   cemetery   in  which   my  treasure  can  rest, 

where  every  thing  is  in  perfect  harmony  with  the  mourn- 


MEMOIR.  1XV 

er's  feeling.  I  go  and  sit  there  by  night,  as  the  moon- 
light falls  upon  her  grave,  with  intense  enjoyment;  — 
yes,  to  be  sincere,  I  must  use  those  words,  even  if  1  ap- 
pear to  you  like  a  stock  or  a  stone,  —  for  God  seems 
with  me,  and  she  seems  with  me  ;  every  dear  thought 
and  memory  gathers  there,  and  I  verily  believe  that,  in 
all  the  history  of  my  past  life,  I  never  have  been  able  to 
form  an  imagination  of  heaven  which  would  compare 
with  those  which  have  dawned  upon  me  now. 

"  And  yet  the  solitude  at  home, — it  is  deep,  it  is 

awful,  but  it  never  brings  my  heart  quite  down 

Heaven  knows  how  my  heart  would  have  leaped  to  go 
before  her,  —  for  I  did  not  think  I  could  have  borne  her 
loss  ; —  but,  now  the  order  of  Providence  has  gone  forth, 
I  have  no  desire  except  to  be  true  to  my  duties  as  long 
as  I  am  able,  and  then  to  be  ready  to  go.  Surely,  the 
devotion  of  my  life  will  be  the  least  possible  acknowl- 
edgment of  his  unwearied  blessing  in  giving  me  such  a 
treasure,  and  when  he  resumed  it,  giving  me  the  treas- 
ure of  her  spiritual  presence  and  his  own  spiritual  pres- 
ence in  its  stead." 

In  a  letter  dated  November  2d,  1843,  he  says  :  — 
"  I  am  greatly  obliged  to  you  for  your  ever  thoughtful 
kindness  in  sending  me  Scougal's  Works,  which  I  was 
very  desirous  to  see.  Such  writers  seem  to  me  like 
sympathizing  friends,  whose  hearts  answer  to  my  own 
like  face  to  face  in  water,  —  and,  what  is  better,  answer 
to  that  of  our  common  Master.  I  was  very  much  in- 
terested in  the  extract  from  Dr.  Channing.*     I  feel  that 

*  "  The  departed  have  gone  to  see,  to  love,  and  serve  the  Infinite 
Father,  with  a  new  fervor  and  elevation  of  spirit,  and  we  should  strive 
to  sympathize  with  them,  to  be  joined  with  them  by  participation  of 


lxvi  MEMOIR. 

it  is  true  that  we  may  lead  a  heavenly  life  below,  and 
thus  do  what  my  dearest  Amelia  asked  me  if  I  could  do. 
1  Shall  we  go  on  together  in  the  heavenly  way  ? '  Wheth- 
er she  referred  to  this  life  or  the  other  I  did  not  know. 
My  heart  replies,  We  shall,  my  love,  you  in  heaven 
where  you  deserve  to  be,  and  I  alone,  but  not  disheart- 
ened, in  the  world  below,  —  you  in  enjoyment,  as  is  meet, 
and  I  in  discipline  and  sorrow,  as  is  necessary  for  me. 
Neither  am  I  dismayed  at  the  rapidity  and  power  with 
which  her  fine  spirit  will  travel  from  glory  to  glory,  — 
for,  thank  Heaven,  as  it  gains  in  excellence,  it  will  grow- 
in  sympathy,  and  I  know  that  her  love  for  me,  "unworthy 
as  I  am,  will  survive  all  change.  Nothing  but  my  utter 
abandonment  can  ever  induce  her  to  tear  me  from  her 
heart." 

After  a  short  absence,  he  writes  :  — 

"  Nov.  20,  1843.  I  am  happy  to  get  back  into  my 
own  pulpit,  where  every  thing  seems  like  home,  the 
audience  always  attentive  and  kind  in  their  expression, 
and  the  associations  of  the  place,  both  divine  and  human, 
exactly  what  I  should  desire  in  the  house  of  prayer.  It 
was   well   calculated   to   get   home   on  Saturday  night, 


their  progress.  We  are  apt  to  feel  as  if  nothing  we  could  do  on  earth 
bears  a  relation  to  what  the  good  are  doing  in  a  higher  world  ;  but  it 
is  not  so.  Heaven  and  earth  are  not  so  far  apart.  Every  disinterested 
act,  every  sacrifice  to  duty,  every  exertion  for  the  good  of  '  one  of 
the  least  of  Christ's  brethren,'  every  new  insight  into  God's  works, 
every  new  impulse  given  to  the  love  of  truth  and  goodness,  associates 
us  with  the  departed,  brings  us  nearer  to  them,  and  is  as  truly  heav- 
enly as  if  we  were  acting  not  on  earth  but  in  heaven.  The  spiritual 
tie  between  us  and  the  departed  is  not  felt  as  it  ought  to  be.  Our 
union  with  them  daily  grows  stronger,  if  we  daily  make  progress  in 
what  they  are  growing  in." 


MEMOIR.  lxvii 

though  I  found  the  most  affectionate  welcome.  Still, 
one  was  not  there.  She  will  never  welcome  me  on 
earth  again  ;  and  when  Fanny  sang  my  favorite  song,  — 

"  The  being  beauteous 
Who  unto  my  life  was  given, 
More  than  all  things  else  to  love  me,"  — 

I  was  so  entirely  unmanned,  as  to  shed  the  most  bitter 
tears  for  her  who  is  '  now  a  saint  in  heaven.' 

"  My  visit  has  been  one  of  the  deepest  interest  and 
gratification,  —  to  find  so  many  who  could  understand 
the  value  of  my  lost  blessing,  and,  more  than  all,  to  find 
you,  who  so  entirely  sympathized  with  me  in  affection, 
and  who  follow  her  with  the  same  intense  interest  now. 
How  we  do  gaze  into  the  future  world  !  And  we  see 
nothing  but  an  image  of  our  own  thoughts  and  emotions, 
as  he  who  looks  into  the  water  sees  only  his  own  reflec- 
tion below.  But  we  know  the  way,  and  that  should  be 
enough.  It  seems  to  be  ordained,  that,  unless  we  travel 
in  the  way  to  it,  we  shall  have  nothing  but  unsubstantial 
fancies  of  that  state  ;  but  if  our  feet  are  set  in  that 
path,  a  living  faith  gives  us  as  much  and  as  welcome 
support  as  if  the  reality  were  present  to  our  eyes. 

"  I  think  I  shall  be  faithful.  In  the  long  watches  of 
the  sleepless  night  I  endeavour  to  study  out  my  duty  in 
every  possible  relation,  and  though  I  have  but  little  con- 
fidence in  my  own  wisdom,  I  try  to  make  it  sure  that 
my  aim  shall  be  true  and  high.  May  God's  blessing  be 
with  me  !  He  would  not  take  away  my  right  hand  and 
right  eye  without  affording  me  other  light  to  guide  me. 
I  can  always  think  of  what  she  would  wish,  and  her 
holy  life  has  made  her  so  nearly  one  with  her  Master, 


lxviii  MEMOIR. 

that  I  can,  without  any  confusion  of  thought  or  irrever- 
ence, think  of  her  when  my  heart  rises  up  to  God." 

To  the  same  :  — 

"  Dec.  3,  1843.  My  purpose  was  to  write  you  on 
Thanksgiving  day  ;  but  when  it  came,  it  was  so  unlike 
what  it  had  been,  that  I  was  perfectly  sick  at  heart.  I 
preached  on  the  subject  of  home,  showing  how  it  might 
be  desolated  by  selfishness,  and  blessed  by  religious  in- 
fluences. I  fear  that  I  was  myself  an  example  of  the 
former,  for  my  dreary  condition  sat  heavy  on  my  soul. 
In  my  prospect  of  life  every  thing  attractive  and  happy 
was  connected  with  her.  Now  I  look  forward,  and  she 
is  not  there.  A  wretched  vacancy  is  there.  At  times 
I  could  repeat  the  noble  words  of  Catholic  faith,  Sur- 
sum  corda,  '  Lift  up  your  hearts,'  —  but  my  heart  would 
sink  heavily  again.  I  do  not  now  know  whether  I  shall 
be  an  example  or  a  warning.  But  I  hope  in  God. 
Many  trials  surround  me,  and  the  heart  knoweth  its 
own  bitterness  ;  but  he  is  able  to  deliver  me  out  of  them 
all.     Blessed  be  his  name  !  " 

To  the  same  :  — 

"  Dec.  17,  1843.  has  sent  me  a  few  recollec- 
tions of  Amelia,  which  are  interesting  to  me,  as  they 
would  be  to  you.  She  says,  —  '  Amelia  was  very  fond 
of  flowers.  When  she  was  about  three  years  old,  I 
opened  the  front  door  one  afternoon,  and  she  lay  asleep 
in  the  entry,  her  shoes  filled  round  the  instep  with 
ladies'  delights,  her  fine  hair  in  long  ringlets  on  her 
shoulders,  and  her  cheeks  flushed  with  a  beautiful  color, 
owing  to  the  exercise  she  had  taken.  It  was  some  time 
before  I  could  prevail  upon  myself  to  wake  her.'  So 
it  was  with  her,  —  beautiful  in  childhood,   beautiful  in 


MEMOIR.  lxix 

maturity,  —  O,  how  beautiful  in  heaven  !  —  I  shall  behold 
her,  but  not  now.  God  give  me  faith  and  patience  to 
wait  his  time  !  " 

At  the  period  of  his  wife's  death,  Dr.  Peabody's 
family  consisted  of  four  sons,  at  the  ages  when  they 
greatly  needed  such  a  mother's  care,  and  of  a  daughter, 
the  eldest  of  the  five,  whose  name  has  been  already 
mentioned  in  these  pages.  Slie  had  now  reached  the 
age  of  eighteen  :  full  of  talent  and  animation,  earnestly 
devoted  to  reading  and  literature,  with  acquirements  not 
generally  expected  at  her  period  of  life,  and  entering 
with  all  the  ardor  of  a  youthful  heart  into  the  pleasures 
of  society.  But  the  unwearied  industry  of  her  mother 
had  saved  her  from  domestic  cares,  and  her  tastes  in- 
clined her  more  to  others.  This  was  the  cause  of  much 
anxiety  to  her  father  ;  but  it  gave  him  far  more,  that, 
though  reverent  and  not  inattentive  to  her  religious  duty, 
she  had  not  heretofore  regarded  that  duty  as  the  great 
object  of  her  life.  His  hope  of  domestic  comfort,  and 
of  the  welfare  of  his  younger  children,  now  rested  on 
her.  Her  experience  in  the  affairs  of  the  household 
had  been  very  small,  nor  had  she  exhibited  any  very 
general  sympathy  with  those  around  her.  In  order  to 
impress  her  mind  with  a  deep  sense  of  the  obligations 
which  now  devolved  upon  her,  and  of  the  spirit  in 
which  they  should  be  fulfilled,  he  addressed  to  her  this 
touching  letter  :  — 

**  We  will  look,  my  dear  daughter,  at  the  solemn 
duties  which  our  Heavenly  Father  has  now  thrown  upon 
us  by  the  translation  of  our  sainted  friend.  Let  us 
every  night  and  morning,  so  help  us  God,  think  them 
over,  to  know  what  we  have  to  do,  and  how  we  have 

S 


1XX  MEMOIR. 

discharged  them.  They  will  hereafter  be  required  at 
our  hands.  If  we  are  faithful,  we  shall  both  be  happy, 
for  there  is  but  one  path  to  happiness,  in  life's  opening 
and  in  its  decline.  But  faithful  or  happy  we  cannot  be, 
without  living  as  she  did,  —  near  to  God. 

"  Let  us  be  affectionate,  not  only  in  reality,  but  in 
word  and  manner,  to  the  poor  children  ;  they  will  re- 
quire unwearied  patience  and  care.  Let  us  resolve 
that  they  shall  have  it  always,  and  love,  cost  us  what 
it  will.  Their  characters  are  yet  to  be  formed,  and 
if  we  show  the  right  spirit  and  example,  the  effort  will 
not  be  lost.  God  grant  that  our  own  may  riot  be  ruined 
by  our  unfaithfulness  to  theirs  !  Let  us  feel  it  to  be 
our  duty  to  make  home  as  pleasant  as  possible  to  them. 
If  we  are  false  to  this  duty,  and  they  are  driven  abroad 
for  enjoyment,  it  may  be  their  ruin.  Let  us  never  be 
abroad  for  our  own  gratification,  when  we  can  give  hap- 
piness at  home. 

"  It  is  yours  now  to  take  the  head  of  the  family,  and 
to  make  yourself  familiar  with  those  domestic  cares 
which  heretofore  your  mother  has  taken  from  our  hands. 
The  arrangement  of  meals  for  each  day,  —  the  care  of 
clothes,  furniture,  and  rooms,  —  all  matters  of  domestic 
charity,  which  were  so  sacredly  regarded  by  your  moth- 
er,—  the  whole  superintendence  of  the  household, — 
must  necessarily  come  upon  you.  Any  inattention  to 
these  obligations  may  be  fatal  to  the  peace  and  comfort 
of  the  house.     Let  us  each  be  faithful  to  our  part. 

"  Let  us  remember  how  sacredly  we  are  bound  to 
cherish  her  friends.  Her  domestics  were  always  her 
friends.  She  treated  them  with  delicacy  and  tender- 
ness, which  resulted  in  strong  attachment  on  either  side. 


MEMOIR.  lxxi 

Let  us  follow  her  example  in  this  as  in  all  excellence  : 
were  it  only  from  self-interest,  it  is  the  only  way  to 
secure  those  kind  services  and  attentions  which  we  all 
need.     Happy  if  they  come  from  the  heart  ! 

"  Above  all  earthly  things,  let  us  keep  open  hearts  to 
each  other.  Without  mutual  affection  we  must  be  miser- 
able, and  it  cannot  possibly  be  sustained  without  a  con- 
fidence unreserved  and  open  as  day.  How  much  I 
depend  upon  your  affection  in  my  wretched  loneliness 
no  words  can  tell.  If  you  can, — and  you  can  be  a 
light  to  the  life  of  your  father,  —  it  is  worth  all  the 
effort  and  sacrifice  it  may  require. 

"  I  write  with  many  tears.  Though  God  sustains  me 
in  a  manner  of  which  I  could  not  have  dreamed,  the  sud- 
den and  total  shipwreck  of  my  earthly  happiness  comes 
over  me  sometimes  in  such  a  manner  that  I  sink  broken- 
hearted to  the  dust.  But  I  feel  that  affection,  duty, 
and  God,  the  elements  of  the  higher  life,  are  still  worth 
living  for.  May  I  never  be  false  to  the  steadfast  pur- 
pose of  my  soul,  which  is  to  be  faithful  to  my  own  im- 
provement, faithful  to  my  children,  faithful  to  all  others, 
and,  most  of  all,  faithful  to  my  God  ! 

"  Let  that  voice  from  the  eternal  world  which  we  heard 
from  the  dying  lips  of  your  mother  be  for  ever  treasured 
in  our  hearts.  Much  sooner  than  we  now  imagine  we 
shall  be  called  to  follow.  May  we  die  the  death  of  the 
righteous,  and  let  our  closing  scene  be  like  theirs  !  " 

Nor  were  his  hopes  disappointed.  They  were  ful- 
filled in  a  measure  greater  than  he  had  even  dared  to 
think.  A  light  was  breaking  through  the  darkness  of  his 
desolation.  In  his  diary  he  says,  November  22d,  — 
"  Fanny  appears  to  enter  upon  her  duties  with  much  spirit 


lXXii  MEMOIR. 

and  discretion.  I  am  greatly  encouraged  to  believe  that 
she  will  unfold  very  valuable  traits  of  character.  She 
has  not  been  trained  like  her  mother,  in  the  school  of 
adversity.  This  painful  change  may  be  the  means  of 
making  her  a  finer  character  than  she  could  have  been 
without  it.  I  pray  most  earnestly  that  she  may  be  true 
to  her  Heavenly  Father  ;  this  is  the  most  important 
thing.      May  his  blessing  be  upon  her  !  " 

In  a  letter  written  at  the  same  period,  he  says  :  — 
"Fanny  is  now  so  well  as  to  go  about  and  attend  to 
her  duties,  showing  a  very  good  disposition  to  be  faith- 
ful to  me,  and  I  trust  also  to  a  Heavenly  Father,  whose 
right  to  her  is  greater  than  mine.  My  affections  turn  to 
her  with  the  greatest  fondness,  and  she  returns  it  with  an 
appearance  of  love  which  does  much  to  relieve  my 
wounded  heart." 

In  a  letter  dated  December  3d,  he  says  :  —  "  In  my 
last  lecture  I  touched  upon  the  subject  of  communion, 
showing  that  it  meant,  if  any  thing,  holding  in  common, 
readiness  to  share  our  blessings  with  others,  and  to  let 
them  share  their  cares  and  sorrows  with  us.  This  is 
the  real  communion,  of  which  our  coming  together  at 
the  table  is  only  a  sign,  sometimes,  it  is  to  be  feared,  a 
false  one To-day  I  have  preached  and  admit- 
ted Fanny  to  the  church.  God  grant  that  she  may  be 
a  faithful  child  to  him  !  If  so,  there  needs  no  hope  or 
wish  for  me." 

His  hopes  and  prayers  were  answered.  Her  char- 
acter was  developed  by  this  stern  discipline  with  a  ful- 
ness and  energy  which  surprised  even  those  who  knew 
her  best.  Religion  and  duty  were  thenceforth  her  great 
end  of  life  ;  and  she  felt,  what  persons  of  her  age  are 


memoir.  lxxiii 

not  very  apt  to  feel,  that  religion  cannot  have  its  perfect 
work  without  that  general  and  active  sympathy  to  which 
Jesus  Christ  applied  the  name  of  love.  Her  devotion 
to  her  father  was  disinterested  and  unwearied  ;  and  she 
had  the  greatest  joy  that  a  true-hearted  daughter  can 
feel,  in  finding  that  she  did  very  much  to  soothe  his 
desolate  heart.  She  established  a  powerful  influence  in 
the  minds  of  her  brothers  by  habitual  gentleness  and 
kindness.  Her  temper,  somewhat  excitable  before,  be- 
came uniformly  patient  and  serene.  She  gave  her  time 
and  thoughts  to  soothing  the  sorrows  and  attending  to 
the  necessities  of  the  poor,  making  herself  personally 
acquainted  with  their  circumstances,  and  making  them 
feel  that  she  was  their  friend.  The  child  seemed  at 
once  transformed  into  the  thoughtful  woman.  Discre- 
tion, the  latest  plant  of  youth's  spring-time,  was  mani- 
fested in  her  regard,  alike  reflecting  and  devoted,  to 
every  duty.  One  might  have  apprehended,  that  a  spirit 
thus  quickly  ripening  into  excellence  should  be  early 
translated  to  a  better  than  an  earthly  home  ;  still  her 
health  was  strong,  and  gave  promise  of  many  years  of 
growing  usefulness.  But  in  January,  1S44,  nearly  four 
months  after  the  departure  of  her  mother,  she  was  sud- 
denly attacked  by  illness.  From  a  letter  dated  January 
26th,  we  find  the  spirit  in  which  her  father  received  this 
new  trial  of  his  faith  :  — 

"lam  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  write  to  you  that  poor 
Fanny  is  sick  again.  Early  in  the  night  before  last  she 
was  taken  with  bilious  colic,  as  we  supposed,  but  the 
physician  has  pronounced  her  disease  to  be  scarlet  fever. 
To-day  she  has  appeared  very  sick,  and  wandering  at 
times ;  but  this  may  be  the  usual  course  of  the  com- 
g* 


lxxiv 


MEMOIR. 


plaint.  In  a  former  day  I  should  have  felt  very  badly 
to  have  such  a  disease  make  its  appearance  in  the  family  ; 
but  I  have  learned  better.  I  cannot  be  without  anxiety 
for  my  dear  Fanny  and  the  other  children,  but  I  have 
no  fears.  I  can  leave  all  to  Him  who  disposes  these 
events,  with  perfect  confidence  in  his  love,  and  without 
a  wish  to  alter  his  appointment,  whatever  it  may  be." 

A  (e\v  hours  after  he  uttered  these  words  of  faith  and 
submission,  her  father  was  called  from  his  own  sick-room 
to  her  dying  bed,  to  receive  her  parting  breath.  Early 
on  the  morning  of  the  28th  of  January,  her  young  spirit 
was  released  from  the  cares  and  sorrows  6f  earth,  and 
she  was  at  rest  for  ever. 

Her  father  was  himself  severely  ill  at  the  moment 
when  this  blow  descended  upon  him.  In  what  manner 
he  endured  it,  his  own  words  must  tell.  It  was  on  the 
next  Sabbath  but  one  after  her  death,  —  the  first  one 
on  which  his  state  of  health  permitted  him  to  resume  his 
duties,  — that  he  thus  addressed  himself  to  the  younger 
portion  of  his  society.  Like  the  discourse  which  has 
been  already  given,  it  was  extemporaneous  and  written 
after  it  was  delivered.  The  reader  will  find  in  it  the 
outpouring  of  the  fulness  of  his  heart,  combined  with 
his  recollections  of  her  from  whom  he  was  thus  separ- 
ated :  — 

"  My  strength  has  been  somewhat  worn  with  sickness 
and  sorrow,  and  I  cannot  tell  how  far  it  will  allow  me  to 
go.  I  shall  not,  therefore,  commence  the  usual  service, 
which  I  might  not  be  able  to  finish,  and  shall  only  say,  in 
plain  and  familiar  words,  what  is  on  my  mind  and  in  my 
heart.  If  I  addressed  myself  to  any,  it  would  be  to  the 
young,  —  to  those  just  passing  from  careless  youth  into 


MEMOIR.  1XXV 

the  responsibilities  of  manner  years,  —  to  those  near  the 
age  of  her  who  lately  left  us  for  the  grave.  If  in  what  I 
say  I  shall  make  more  than  one  allusion  to  her,  I  am 
sure  you  will  indulge  me  in  it.  The  days  are  heavy  with 
me  ;  it  would  seem  as  if  the  memory  of  loved  ones 
would  soon  be  all  that  is  left  me,  and  such  comfort  as 
I  can  find  in  such  sad  recollections  I  am  sure  you  will 
let  me  enjoy. 

"  I  would  fain  impress  upon  the  young  the  wisdom, 
the  happiness,  the  absolute  necessity,  of  turning  their 
hearts  to  God,  and  would  recommend  to  them  to  make 
the  sign  of  their  sincere  determination  to  be  as  much  as 
possible  like  their  Heavenly  Master.  You  may  think 
that  you  are  not  ready  for  this ;  your  feelings  are  not 
ripe  for  it.  I  ask  not  for  your  feelings  ;  let  them  take 
their  own  time.  What  I  ask  is  the  deep  and  solemn 
determination  to  follow  your  Master  in  all  things  as  fast 
and  as  far  as  human  frailty  will  allow.  In  other  words, 
I  ask  you  to  be  children  of  God,  in  thought,  in  action, 
and  in  life  ;  to  treat  him  as  a  father  ;  to  go  boldly  to' the 
throne  of  grace,  and  throw  open  your  hearts  —  all  your 
hearts  —  before  him  ;  tell  him  your  wants,  tell  him  your 
temptations,  tell  him  your  joys  and  sorrows,  assured  that 
he  careth  for  you.  Ask  his  blessing,  ask  his  help  and 
the  influences  of  his  presence,  which  he  is  always  wait- 
ing to  bestow.  When  your  hearts  are  once  sincerely 
and  faithfully  turned  in  that  direction,  you  will  find  a  joy 
in  life  which  you  have  never  dreamed  of  yet  ;  you  will 
awake  at  once  to  a  sense  of  the  value  and  blessing  of 
existence  ;  all  your  distaste,  anxiety,  and  restless  weari- 
ness will  pass  away  ;  you  will  feel  and  confess,  for  the 
first  time,  that  you  have  found  peace  to  your  troubled 
souls. 


lxXVi  MEMOIR. 

"  You  observe  that  I  speak  as  if  all  this  was  within 
your  own  power.  I  believe  that  it  is  ;  they  who  will 
may  come  to  the  waters.  Our  Saviour  upbraided  the 
thoughtless  men  of  his  day,  because,  having  power,  they 
would  not  come  to  him  that  they  might  have  life.  You 
can  take  the  leafless  plant  from  your  cellar  and  set  it  in 
the  sun  ;  the  influences  of  heaven  in  the  spring-time  will 
soon  cover  it  with  foliage  and  with  flowers.  What 
you  can  do  for  the  plant  which  you  value,  you  can  also 
do  for  your  heart,  your  barren  heart,  which  is  now  its 
own  sepulchre,  which  has  never  pursued,  nor  acknowl- 
edged, nor  even  understood,  the  purpose  for  which  God 
made  it.  I  know  this  is  not  often  done  till  God's  hand 
has  touched  the  heart.  Is  it  not  so  with  you  ?  What 
numbers  have  you  seen  in  the  last  few  years  passing  out 
from  this  house  of  God,  —  the  aged  and  venerable,  the 
manly  and  matronly  and  useful,  the  young  and  beautiful 
and  tender,  —  moving  in  pale  procession  down  to  the 
bosom  of  the  eternal  world  !  Has  not  another  per- 
ished in  the  brightness  of  her  rising,  —  at  an  hour  which 
would  seem  untimely,  if  that  word  could  apply  to  any 
act  of  God  ?  She  has  been  called  to  impress  on  you 
how  soon  you  may  hear  the  death-angel's  calm  but  un- 
relenting voice,  —  how  suddenly  you  may  be  summoned, 
with  your  present  thoughts  upon  your  minds,  and  your 
present  feelings  and  passions  in  your  hearts.  As  you 
are  you  must  go,  perhaps  without  a  moment's  conscious 
warning,  to  render  your  account  to  God.  Be  not  de- 
ceived by  the  representations  of  fancy.  The  coloring 
which  sentiment  and  imagination  throw  around  the  death- 
bed is  not  true.  Seen  as  it  is,  it  is  a  stern  reality.  It 
is  an  awful  thing  to  die. 


MEMOIR.  lxxvii 

"  My  wish  and  prayer  for  you  is,  that  you  may  have 
the  feelings  of  children  of  God,  —  the  affectionate  rever- 
ence for  him,  the  quick  and  living  conscience,  the  warm- 
hearted sympathy  with  those  around  you,  which  a  sense 
of  your  filial  relation  to  him  will  inspire.  Never  be  mis- 
led by  the  miserable  fiction,  that  without  prayer  and 
without  a  true  love  for  others  you  can  be  the  children  of 
God  ;  for,  depend  upon  it,  it  is  not  so.  We  live  in  a 
world  of  self-delusion  ;  it  is  fearful  to  think  how  many, 
living  in  hollow  and  lifeless  forms,  are  persuaded  that  all 
is  well  with  their  souls,  though  they  have  not  and  do  not 
try  to  have  the  principles  and  affections  which  make  the 
Christian. 

"  The  mother  of  the  dear  child  whom  I  have  lost  — 
her  views  of  God  and  humanity  were  always  hopeful  and 
inspiring  —  said  of  her  daughter,  '  The  time  will  come 
when  she  will  change,  and  when  she  does,  the  change 
will  be  true.'  The  time  did  come  ;  she  was  changed  ; 
her  heart  opened  to  a  sense  of  her  relation  to  her 
Heavenly  Father,  acknowledging  the  various  duties 
which  grow  out  of  it,  with  the  sincerest  desire  and  effort 
to  do  them.  From  that  hour  a  lovely  serenity  and  cheer- 
ful and  earnest  thoughtfulness  spread  themselves  over  her 
manner,  and  shone  from  her  placid  brow.  I  cannot  tell 
you  what  delight  it  was  to  me  to  see  the  Bible  in  her 
hand,  and  the  deep  interest  with  which  she  used  to  read 
it,  —  to  observe  how  peacefully  her  days  went  by,  how 
sacredly  the  Sabbath  was  regarded  ;  for  I  saw  that  the 
prophecy  was  fulfilled,  and  the  change  was  true.  It  was 
not  that  she  was  cold  and  unworthy  before,  but  a  new 
revelation  had  evidently  dawned  upon  her  spirit.  She 
saw  how  great  a  thing  existence  is,  and  what  wonders  of 


lxxviii  MEMOIR. 

glory  and  love  there  are  in  it  to  those  who,  instead  of 
snatching  the  joys  that  float  by  them  on  the  surface, 
look  deeper  for  their  happiness  and  find  their  treasures 
within.  We  are  told  by  those  who  have  passed  the 
winter  in  the  arctic  circle,  that  almost  as  soon  as  the 
spring  returns  the  snows  are  gone,  the  streams  are  flow- 
ing, the  earth  and  the  trees  are  green,  the  flowers  pour 
incense  from  their  little  censers,  and  birds  fill  the  woods 
with  the  wild  rapture  of  their  song.  Such  is  the  change 
in  the  heart  when  it  passes  from  darkness  to  light,  not 
by  that  mechanical  process  by  which  hearts  are  bent  in 
one  direction,  like  iron  in  its  red-hot  glow,,  soon  to  be- 
come cold  and  rigid  as  ever,  but  by  a  glad  and  voluntary 
surrender  of  its  energies  and  affections  to  Him  who 
gave  them  ;  for  all  the  powers  within  rise  up  in  happy, 
harmonious,  and  powerful  action,  as  soon  as  the  warm 
sunshine  of  God's  influence  is  permitted  to  reach  the 
heart. 

"  I  would  also,  if  I  had  power,  impress  upon  the 
young  how  much  may  be  done  in  a  little  time,  if  the 
heart  is  in  it.  '  How  much  we  might  do  if  we  only 
would  !  '  were  the  words  of  a  dying  man  whose  virtues 
I  shall  long  remember.  Why  cannot  the  living  feel 
this  ?  Why  should  it  be  left  to  start  up  in  the  hearts  of 
the  dying,  when  the  time  of  action  is  nearly  past  ?  It 
was  said  of  him  who  was  translated  in  the  early  age  of 
the  world,  for  the  example  of  religious  excellence  which 
he  gave,  that,  '  being  made  perfect  in  a  short  time,  he 
fulfilled  a  long  time.'  And  it  is  true,  that,  under  certain 
circumstances,  one  man  may  live  more  in  a  few  days 
than  another  in  threescore  years  and  ten  ;  that  is,  he 
may  do  more  to  fulfil  the  purposes  of  existence,  more 


MEMOIR.  lxxix 

to  serve  God  and  man,  more  to  unfold  the  great  spirit 
within  him,  than  another  who  slumbers  on  to  the  late  de- 
cline of  age  without  asking  what  life  is  for,  how  much 
may  be  done  in  it,  and  what  account  must  be  rendered 
at  last. 

"  I  feel  that  it  was  so  with  the  child  whom  I  have 
lost.  The  first  eighteen  years  of  her  life  were  com- 
paratively a  blank,  the  last  few  months  were  the  well 
filled,  the  deeply  written,  the  richly  illuminated  page. 
Although  a  stranger  to  domestic  duties  till  the  whole 
weight  of  them  came  at  once  upon  her,  she  seemed  to 
work  out  for  herself  in  a  few  days  the  experience  of 
years,  manifesting  an  energy  and  discretion  which  in- 
spired in  me  the  most  perfect  confidence,  and  which  a 
lifetime  is  commonly  required  to  teach.  She  took  up 
the  burden  of  those  duties,  which  was  far  from  being  a 
light  one,  with  a  power  and  gracefulness  which  seemed 
incredible  in  one  so  young  ;  but  in  truth,  '  Honorable  old 
age  is  not  that  which  standeth  in  length  of  time,  nor  is 
measured  by  number  of  years  ;  but  wisdom  is  the  gray 
hair  unto  men,  and  an  unspotted  life  is  old  age.' 

"  There  is  divine  philosophy  in  this.  We  know  how 
soon  the  imagination,  '  yoked  with  whirlwinds  and  the 
northern  blast,  sweeps  the  long  tract  of  day,'  and 
the  spiritual  powers  are  equally  rapid  and  resistless 
when  called  into  efficient  action  ;  in  the  greatness  of 
their  strength  they  travel  over  the  field  of  duty,  and, 
after  a  few  short  struggles  and  victories,  possess  and 
enjoy  it  all.  The  truth  begins  to  be  understood.  It 
comes  to  us  in  the  words  of  the  modern  lyrist,  which 
always  stir  my  heart  like  the  sound  of  a  silver  trum- 
pet :  — 


1XXX  MEMOIR. 

'  To  all  the  sensual  world  proclaim, 
One  glorious  hour  of  crowded  life 
Is  worth  an  age  without  a  name.' 

Let  every  heart  take  up  that  word,  and  rejoice  to  send 
it  on  ;  perhaps  it  may  reach  the  dull,  cold  ear  of  the 
sensual  world  at  last.  O  this  sleep  of  life  !  how  much 
deeper,  heavier,  how  much  more  hopeless  it  is  than  the 
sleep  of  death  !  To  that  sleep  there  shall  be  a  waking, — 
the  morning  is  not  far  ;  but  to  this  sleep  of  life,  the 
morning  may  never  break,  —  the  waking  may  never 
come. 

"  While  the  heart  that  feels  its  relation  to  God  will 
delight  to  come  into  near  communion  with  him,  there  is 
another  manifestation  of  the  religious  spirit  in  which 
there  is  less  danger  of  delusion.  I  mean,  the  sympathy 
with  all,  which  our  religion  inspires.  Not  the  sympathy 
with  the  few,  nor  with  the  many  ;  but  with  all,  without 
exception,  who  bear  the  form  of  a  man.  '  If  ye  love 
them  which  love  you,  what  reward  have  ye  ?  Do  not 
even  the  publicans  the  same  ? '  It  must  be  something 
more  self-denying,  more  free-hearted,  than  this  that  shall 
resemble  the  spirit  of  your  Master. 

"  O,  could  you  but  know  how  you  wrong  your  own 
souls,  what  a  death- wound  you  give  to  your  own  moral 
nature,  when  you  treat  any  form  or  aspect  of  humanity 
with  ridicule  or  disdain  !  When  you  laugh  at  the  weak- 
nesses and  follies  of  others,  you  are  yourself  the  subject 
of  profound  compassion  to  those  heavenly  beings  who 
look  down  with  interest  on  our  fallen  race.  '  Have  we 
not  all  one  Father,  —  hath  not  one  God  created  us  ?  ' 
For  his  sake,  let  us  treat  all  others  as  brethren  and  sis- 
ters, having  the  same  earnest  desire  to  serve  them,  the 


MEMOIR.  lxXXi 

same  pain  at  seeing  them  unkindly  treated,  the  same 
joy  in  their  prosperity,  the  same  sorrow  for  their  sor- 
row, and  most  of  all  for  their  sin.  Cherish  in  yourselves, 
with  all  your  care,  the  spirit  of  your  Master,  —  I  do  as- 
sure you,  it  requires  all  the  care  that  you  can  give,  — 
and  remember  that  his  spirit  can  dwell  only  in  a  gentle, 
forbearing,  loving,  and  patient  heart. 

"  Such,  I  may  truly  say,  was  the  spirit  of  the  child 
whom  I  have  lost.  I  mean  after  her  heart  was  opened, 
for  it  was  colder  and  more  reserved  in  former  years. 
She  felt  that  she  had  made  a  great  mistake,  that  the 
regard  of  every  human  being  was  of  great  value,  and 
she  determined  to  go  forth  and  seek  the  friendship  of 
others  by  the  only  means  that  can  secure  it ;  for  it  is 
always  an  answering  feeling,  freely  given  only  to  those 
who  freely  give. 

"  Her  heart  warmed  towards  the  friends  of  her  moth- 
er, —  and  who  were  not  the  friends  of  her  mother  ? 
She  longed  for  the  season  when  she  could  go  forth  to 
become  acquainted  with  the  members  of  the  society, 
to  express  to  them  her  grateful  sense  of  their  unwearied 
kindness  to  me  and  mine.  From  her  youth  she  could 
have  no  power  over  her  brothers,  but  she  established  at 
once  an  influence  within  them,  and  they  cheerfully  sub- 
mitted themselves  to  the  authority  of  love. 

"  For  myself,  I  was  like  the  wanderer,  — who,  when 
falling  on  the  mountain-side,  grasped  a  small  plant  for 
his  support,  and  thus  brought  to  light  the  rich  mines  of 
Peru.  I  was  in  constant  wonder  at  the  treasures  of 
feeling  which  unfolded  themselves  in  her  love  for  me  ;  it 
was  watchful,  patient,  self-denying,  and  tender.  When 
we  parted  on  the  night  before  her  sickness  began,  I 
h 


lxXXii  MEMOIR. 

threw  my  arms  round  her,  and  felt  that  I  had  something 
to  live  for  yet.  In  her  delirious  visions  she  was  con- 
stantly speaking  of  me.  I  shall  never  forget  how  fond- 
ly she  pressed  her  burning  lips  to  mine,  and  her  last 
words  to  me,  '  O  my  dear  father  !  '  breathed  from 
depths  of  affection  which  no  line  had  ever  sounded  in 
her  young  and  fervent  heart.  It  was  God's  blessing  to 
me,  —  and  till  my  own  heart  shall  be  cold  in  death  I 
shall  be  grateful  that  I  possessed,  enjoyed,  and  know 
how  to  value  this  blessing  of  a  daughter's  love. 

"  I  think  I  am  not  misled  by  natural  partiality  when 
I  say  that  she  gave  promise  of  usefulness  had  she 
lived,  and  in  her  early  departure  there  is  something  of 
the  mystery  of  death,  —  something  more  than  can  be 
read  by  the  living  eye.  I  know  that  early  death  is  a 
blessing  to  those  who  are  prepared  to  go  ;  it  is  a  blessing 
'to  be  taken  early,  while  unworn  with  anxiety  and  sorrow, 
while  the  affections  are  unchilled  by  disappointment,  and 
before  the  heart  has  become  partially  hardened,  as  the 
best  hearts  may,  by  the  rough  collisions  of  the  troub- 
ling and  the  troubled  world.  It  is  hard  to  surrender 
those  who  are  dear  to  us,  but  it  is  not  hard  to  submit 
ourselves  to  the  disposal  of  a  God  of  love.  It  is  in 
these  afflictions  that  the  foundations  of  our  immortal  life 
are  laid  ;  the  strait  and  narrow  path  is  the  nearest  one 
to  a  heavenly  home.  Some  of  you  have  already  be- 
come intimately  acquainted  with  grief,  —  not  heavier, 
perhaps,  but  yet  harder  to  bear,  than  mine,  —  and  those 
who  have  been  exempt  thus  far  cannot  go  through  life 
without  meeting  with  changes  ;  they  are  the  universal 
doom,  from  which  none  may  hope  to  be  free.  '  In  the 
world,'  said  Jesus  Christ,  '  ye  shall  have  tribulation  :  but 


memoir.  lxxxiii 

be  of  good  cheer  ;  I  have  overcome  the  world.'  Re- 
member the  strength  and  sympathy  which  he  offers. 
Remember  his  promise,  —  '  To  him  that  overcometh,  I 
will  give  the  morning  star.' 

'  The  star  of  the  unconquered  will, 

He  rises  in  my  breast, 
Serene,  and  resolute,  and  still, 

And  calm,  and  self-possessed. 
O,  faint  not  in  a  world  like  this, 

And  thou  shalt  know  ere  long, 
Know  how  sublime  a  thing  it  is 

To  suffer  and  be  strong.' 

"  It  has  been  as  I  intimated  that  it  would  be.  1 
have  indulged  my  own  feelings  with  too  little  regard  to 
the  claims  and  duties  of  the  day.  Still,  I  think  that  the 
service  will  not  be  lost,  for  if  the  words  are  uninstruc- 
tive,  the  act  of  God  is  full  of  meaning.  '  The  righteous 
dead  condemneth  the  ungodly  that  are  living,  and  youth 
that  is  soon  perfected,  the  many  years  and  old  age  of 
the  unrighteous.'  Remember  how  few  days  since  her 
hold  on  life  seemed  strong  as  yours,  and  now  she  has 
exchanged  the  happy  mansions  of  the  living  for  the 
lonely  and  frozen  grave.  Remember  how  soon  you 
may  follow  in  that  path  where  there  is  no  return, 
and,  while  you  may,  secure  the  preparation  of  the 
Gospel,  —  the  only  preparation  that  can  avail  you  in 
the  world  to  which  you  go.  If  you  are  but  faithful 
to  yourselves,  to  others,  and  to  God,  you  will  close 
your  eyes  in  peace  ;  sweet  and  mournful  will  be  the 
memory  you  will  leave  behind  you,  and  death  will 
conduct  you  to  happiness  such  as  no  living  lips  can 
tell.     Here  is  a  field  of  high  and  holy  ambition.     Live 


IxXXiv  MEMOIR. 

so  that,  if  the  next  spring  should  not  find  you  here,  you 
may  be  rejoicing  in  nearer  presence  with  God.  So  ful- 
fil the  duties  of  your  life  that,  if  you  should  thus  pass 
away,  you  may,  like  her  on  whom  the  heavy  gate  of  the 
tomb  last  closed,  leave  the  epitaph  written  on  a  parent's 
bleeding  heart,  — '  Many  daughters  have  done  virtuous- 
ly, but  thou  excellest  them  all.'  " 

From  a  letter  to  a  friend,  written  a  week  after  his 
daughter's  death,  and  before  he  had  left  his  sick  cham- 
ber, we  may  see  that,  although  feeble  in  body  and  sad  in 
spirit,  he  still  could  say  from  the  heart,  "  Thy  will  be 
done." 

"  Feb.  5,  1844.  When  I  wrote  you  last,  I  told  you 
that  I  was  prepared  for  whatever  might  come  ;  but  I 
did  not  know.  So  far  as  to  be  able  to  receive  it  with 
grateful  and  undoubting  confidence,  with  unaltered  love 
-of  my  Heavenly  Father,  and  without  a  wish  that  it 
might  be  otherwise,  I  was  prepared.  But  not  to  feel 
wounded,  stricken,  and  desolate, — for  this  I  was  not  pre- 
pared. I  was  lifted  above  my  former  sorrow,  but  now 
'  He  hath  brought  me  down  to  the  dust  of  death.' 


Perhaps,  as  I  gain  my  physical  strength,  which  is  now 
entirely  subdued,  I  shall  feel  stronger  in  spirit.  I  shall 
commit  myself  to  Him,  and  he  will  do  with  me  as  he 
thinks  best.     His  will  be  done  ! 

"  How  strange,  that,  when  my  dearest  child  had  just 
begun  to  unfold  the  rich  treasures  of  energy  and  affec- 
tion which  had  been  so  long  folded  up  within  her,  when 
I  had  just  begun  to  lean  upon  her,  she  should  be  with- 
drawn ;  her  character  in  its  new  beauty,  power,  and  love- 
liness just  shown  to  me,  and  then  withdrawn  for  ever  ! 
The  night  of  her  sickness,  when  she  bade  me  good  night 


MEMOIR.  1XXXV 

with  her  usual  kiss,  I  threw  my  arms  round  her,  and 
held  her  to  my  heart.  I  felt  that  I  had  something  to 
live  for,  —  it  seemed  as  if  a  new,  bright  field  of  life 
was  opening  upon  me.  Nothing  could  exceed  her  ten- 
der, disinterested  affection  for  me.  The  last  day  of  her 
life  she  was  delirious,  but  talking  all  the  while  of  me  and 
what  she  must  do  for  my  comfort.  When  I  saw  her 
for  the  last  time,  she  drew  my  lips  down  in  close  pres- 
sure to  her  own,  saying,  — '  O  my  dear  father  !  '  Such 
was  the  lovely  opening  of  her  new  promise,  and  now 
the  darkness  that  follows  it  is  extreme.  Will  it  ever 
pass  away  ?  " 

The  shadow  of  physical  weakness  and  depression 
passed  away,  and  as  he  regained  his  strength,  his  mind 
recovered  its  tone,  and  we  find  him  writing  as  follows. 

To  the  same  :  — 

"  Feb.  15,  J844.  The  few  last  months  have  obliged 
me  to  be  constantly  speaking  of  myself.  So  much  so, 
that  now  I  feel  as  if  I  were  in  danger  of  extreme  selfish- 
ness, and  yet,  as  in  my  former  sorrow,  I  am  deter- 
mined to  be  perfectly  natural  in  the  expression  of  my 
feeling,  —  that  is,  not  to  suppress  whatever  I  feel  like 
saying,  simply  because  it  may  seem  like  taxing  the  sym- 
pathy of  friends  and  holding  one's  self  up  as  an  object  of 
compassion.  The  great  endeavour  should  be  to  get 
back  as  soon  as  possible  to  the  healthy  state  of  mind, 
for  in  that  only  can  we  feel  our  relation  to  our  Father  and 
perform  the  duties  it  requires.  With  me,  the  free  ex- 
pression of  feeling  is  the  most  direct  way  to  it.  I  trust 
I  shall  reach  it  soon.  I  am  sometimes  astonished  at 
the  manner  in  which  I  bear  these  things  ;  they  seem 
horrible  as  they  are  coming.  My  flesh  and  heart  fail  at 
h* 


lxXXVi  MEMOIR. 

the  sight,  but  when  they  are  come,  though  I  am  in  the 
very  shadow  of  death,  and  feel  its  chill  at  my  heart,  I 
find  myself  sustained, — there  is  no  heart-sinking,  —  I 
submit,  without  a  wish  that  it  were  otherwise  ;  for  the 
Divine  sympathy  and  presence  seem  so  near  me,  that  I 
almost  doubt  whether  it  is  not  delusion.  But  when  I  re- 
flect upon  it,  I  feel  surer  of  this  than  of  any  thing  else  ; 
there  are  effects  produced  in  myself  which  only  this  is 
sufficient  to  account  for.  I  know  that  it  must  be  so,  and 
I  throw  myself  back  on  this  feeling  with  as  much  confi- 
dence as  if  I  was  leaning  on  the  Rock  of  Ages 

will  send  you  what  I  said  last  Sabbath  by  way  of 

address  to  Fanny's  companions.  There  was  much  in 
the  sudden  departure  to  arrest  their  attention,  and,  if  I 
am  not  under  a  complete  illusion,  there  was  much  in 
Fanny's  later  character  to  inspire  them  to  efforts  for  the 
unfolding  of  their  spirits,  and  the  attainment  of  a  higher 
and  better  life.  I  do  not  trust  much  to  any  thing  that 
I  can  say  ;  —  the  green  tree  has  never  spoken  to  much 
purpose,  and  it  cannot  be  expected  of  the  dry.  But  in 
this  case  God  has  spoken,  and  I  trust  not  in  vain." 

To  the  same  :  — 

"  Feb.  27,  1844.  Your  kind  letter  has  just  reach- 
ed me,  while  writing.  I  am  very  grateful  to  you  for  the 
extract  which  you  send  me  from  Fanny's  letter  to  her 
young  friend.  It  expresses  in  words  what  we  saw  in 
living  action,  or  rather  expresses  in  part,  for  in  a  letter 
she  does  not  dwell,  as  she  might  have  done  elsewhere, 
on  the  source  of  those  influences  which  were  working 
the  change  in  her  young  heart.  Still,  I  hope  her  young 
friends  will  reflect  that  every  effect  must  have  a  cause 
sufficient   to    produce    it.       Death,  and   the    impression 


MEMOIR.  1XXXVH 

which  it  makes,  are  not  sufficient,  as  thousands  of  cases 
show.  There  was  in  her  a  quickened  sense  of  obliga- 
tion, and,  of  course,  a  clearer  discernment  of  the  love 
and  presence  of  Him  to  whom  she  was  thus  bound, — 
to  whom  the  first  fruits  of  her  heart  and  life  were  due. 

"I  am  very  much  struck  sometimes  with  the  extent 
to  which  I  am  favored  above  others.  They  speak  of 
their  want  of  faith  in  what  seems  to  me  a  clear  daylight 
reality.  They  say,  '  Increase  our  faith,'  while  it  seems 
to  me   that  nothing  short  of  actual  sight  and  presence 

could  make  any  addition  to  mine Several  have 

said  to  me  that  they  would  give  any  thing  for  stronger 
evidence  of  the  unseen  world,  whereas  faith  is  the  evi- 
dence ;  just  in  proportion  as  one  believes,  and  lives  ac- 
cordingly, is  he  conscious  of  an  effect  produced  in  his 
heart.  An  effect  so  universal  and  sure  cannot  come 
from  visions  and  imaginations  ;  there  must  be  a  reality 
somewhere.  We  perceive  it,  as  Columbus  found  he  was 
nearing  the  Western  Continent  by  the  change  in  the 
winds  and  waters  before  it  rose  for  the  first  time  upon 
his  view." 

To  the  same  :  — 

"  March  13,  1844.  In  your  letter  you  ask  if  Mr. 
P.  may  copy  my  address.  I  am  sorry  he  should  have 
had  any  hesitation  about  doing  it  at  the  time  when  he 
felt  an  interest  in  it.  My  whole  desire  was  to  have  it 
circulated  in  manuscript  form,  because  that  was  the 
least  ostentatious  way,  and  I  am  very  glad  when  any  one 
cares  enough  for  it  to  be  willing  to  make  a  copy.  I 
hope  it  will  be  good  for  others  that  I  have  been  afflicted, 
and  it  does  seem  to  me  as  if  the  sudden  unfolding  of  a 
fine  spirit,  just  shining  out  and  then  withdrawn,  might 


lxxxviii  MEMOIR. 

have  some  effect  to  touch  the  heart.  It  reminds  me  of 
the  only  time  when  I  saw  the  full  moon  at  Niagara.  I 
was  in  the  tower  just  over  the  fall,  receiving  a  strong 
impression,  though  the  sky  was  darkened  with  clouds. 
All  at  once  the  moon  hroke  through  them,  gilding  the 
whole  prospect,  and  lighting  up  the  rainbow  from  the 
English  to  the  American  fall.  In  a  few  minutes  it  was 
all  dark  again,  and  so  remained  while  I  was  there  ;  but 
the  memory,  and  what  is  more,  the  effect  of  that  mo- 
ment's revelation,  will  go  with  me  to  my  latest  day." 

From  this  time,  Dr.  Peabody  devoted  himself  with 
increased  energy  to  his  religious  duties.  His  own  ex- 
perience had  taught  him  how  to  speak  to  the  hearts  of 
his  people  with  more  depth  and  power  than  before  ;  and 
those  who  heard  him  will  bear  witness  that  he  appealed 
to  them  with  a  spirituality  and  fervor  which  made  a  deep 
and  abiding  impression.  His  health  continued  to  be 
feeble,  and  a  severe  shock  was  given  to  his  constitution 
by  the  afflictions  he  had  undergone  ;  and  he  was  him- 
self persuaded  that  the  shadows  of  night  were  soon  to 
fall,  and  that  what  he  was  to  do  must  be  done  quickly. 

The  words  which  he  used  in  speaking  to  his  people 
of  a  departed  brother,*  to  whom  he  paid  an  eloquent 
tribute  on  the  Sabbath  succeeding  his  death, f  touching- 
ly  describe  his  own  condition  at  this  period  of  his  min- 
istry :  — "  We  see  those,  like  our  departed  friend, 
who  live  for  years  in  constant  suffering,  with  forms 
bowed  down  by  infirmity,  and  yet  keep  their  minds  in 
constant,  efficient,  useful  activity,  not  considering  them- 
selves released  by  reason  of  helplessness  from  any  of 

*  Henry  Ware,  Jr.  t  September  23,  1843. 


MEMOIR.  lxXXix 

their  obligations  to  God  or  man.     On  the  contrary,  their 
energy  seems  quickened  by  that  which  would  seem  most 
to  oppress  it.      They  devote  themselves  with  more  ear- 
nestness to   their  duties  because  the  time  is  short  and 
the  service  which  they  render  must  be  rendered  soon  ; 
they  will  not  withdraw  the  fainting  hand  till  it  is  utterly 
helpless  ;  they  are  determined  to  give  the  last  remnants, 
as  well  as    the    fulness,   of  their  strength  to  the   labor 
which  they  love.      Such  examples  strengthen  our  confi- 
dence  in  the  future  state,   if  this  be  possible,  for  they 
show  that  such  persons  are  able  to  look  over  and  beyond 
it ;  they  live  as  those  who  know  that  they  shall  live  for 
ever  ;  they   have   seized    the   truth   of  their   condition  ; 
they  understand  that  death  is  the  beginning,  not  the  end  ; 
they  keep  their  powers  in  constant  action  here,  that  they 
may  be  prepared  to  enter  at  once  upon  the  higher  duties 
which  await  them  in  the  immortal  state  to  which  they  go.'1 
It  has  already  been  seen  that  the  relation  in  which  he 
stood  to  his  people  was  very  intimate  and  near  ;  he  felt 
that  in  the  presence  of  such  friends  he  could  speak  with 
the  openness  and  freedom  of  familiar  intercourse  ;  and 
he  did  speak  to  them  with  an  earnestness  and  effect  far 
exceeding   those   of  his   earlier  years.      He    seemed  at 
every  moment  standing  on  the  confines   of  the  eternal 
world,  as  one  ready  to  be  offered  ;  permitted  just  be- 
fore entering  its  gate  to  point  out  to  those  he  loved,  with 
the  failing  accents  of  a  dying  voice,  the  way  to  reach  its 
blessedness.     He  was  always  gentle  ;  but  now  his  soul 
seemed  to  glow  with  Christian  love.      He  was  always 
humble  ;  but  now  he  wore  the  aspect  of  one  who  never 
for  a  moment  lost  the  consciousness  that  he  was  in  the 
view  of  an  all-seeing  eye,  and  the  great  purpose  of  his 
being  was  the  only  one  that  occupied  his  thoughts. 


XC  MEMOIR. 

It  was  proposed  to  him,  by  members  of  his  society, 
that  he  should  suspend  his  labors  for  a  season,  in  order 
to  visit  Europe,  and  endeavour  to  establish  his  health  by 
rest  and  change  of  scene  ;  and  they  liberally  offered  to 
provide  him  with  the  means  of  making  such  a  tour  ;  but 
he  felt  that  any  prolonged  absence  might  be  unfavor- 
able to  the  comfort  or  welfare  of  his  children,  and  that 
he  could  find  no  happiness  elsewhere  such  as  was  af- 
forded by  his  home. 

It  is  now  apparent  that  he  was  at  this  time  drawing 
rapidly  near  the  grave,  but  debility  had  accompanied 
him  so  long,  that  his  friends  saw  no  cause  for  serious 
alarm,  and  believed  that  an  effectual  remedy  might  be 
found  in  the  suspension  of  some  of  his  labors,  which 
were  wearing  on  his  exhausted  frame.  But  his  appear- 
ance and  manner  gave  the  impression  to  strangers,  that 
the  period  of  his  labors  was  not  far  distant.  In  July, 
1846,  he  delivered  a  discourse  before  the  Alumni  of  the 
Divinity  School  at  Cambridge.  Many  of  those  who 
heard  him  upon  that  occasion  well  remember  that  he 
seemed  to  them  to  be  speaking  as  a  dying  man,  and  that 
his  voice  sounded  like  that  of  one  who  is  on  the  border 
of  the  grave. 

Here  the  pen  fell  from  the  hands  of  the  only  one  to 
whom  the  friends  of  his  brother  were  willing  to  confide 
the  task  of  preparing  this  Memoir.  While  engaged  in 
writing  it,  he  said  to  a  friend  that  he  felt  as  if  he  were 
carving  the  letters  on  his  own  gravestone.  His  voice  is 
now  still.  There  is  a  touching  eloquence  in  his  silence 
which  it  seems  almost  sacrilege  to  break.  Yet  we  must 
follow  our  suffering  friend  through  the  last  faltering  steps 


MEMOIR.  XC1 

of  his  journey  ;  we  would  also  seek  to  pay  our  tribute 
of  affectionate  reverence  to  the  memory  of  that  brother 
who  has  left  none  behind  him  to  do  justice  to  his  rare 
genius  and  excellence. 

Resuming  the  narrative  where  we  find  it  is  abruptly 
broken  off,  we  follow  Dr.  Peabody  through  six  months 
of  debility,  until  we  reach  the  closing  scene.  Early  in 
October,  1846,  he  was  attacked  with  illness,  which, 
though  of  short  duration,  was  followed  by  extreme  ex- 
haustion. Writing  to  a  friend,  he  says  of  himself  :  — 
"  My  usual  way  of  keeping  some  subject  of  active 
thought  before  me  was  out  of  the  question  in  so  weak 
a  state.  My  mind  seems  like  a  leaden  weight,  or  what 
the  boys  in  fishing  call  a  sinker.''''  At  this  period,  how- 
ever, he  showed  that  his  mind  was  still  awake  to  the 
beautiful  harmonies  of  nature.  He  addressed  the  fol- 
lowing lines  to  a  little  girl  of  nine  years  old,  whose  un- 
common susceptibility  to  natural  beauty  had  attracted 
his  sympathy  and  attention.  They  are  interesting,  as 
being  the  last  lines  of  poetry  which  he  ever  wrote,  and 
as  showing  the  peculiar  grace  and  facility  with  which  he 
always  directed  the  young  to  find  in  nature  the  wise  and 
tender  teachings  of  a  Father's  love. 

"  Louisa!  did  you  never  trace 
The  smile  on  nature's  glorious  face, 
That  seems  to  breathe  from  every  part 
The  deep  expression  of  a  heart  ? 
I  know  you  have  ;  —  in  every  flower 
You  feel  a  presence  and  a  power; 
To  you  the  blue  and  silent  sky 
Has  meaning,  like  an  earnest  eye ; 
And  all  the  warm  and  living  glow, 
Where  foliage  heaves  and  waters  flow, 
Inspires  in  every  changing  tone 
Some  feelings  answering  to  vour  own. 


XC11  MEMOIR. 

"  But  tell  me  whence  that  smile  can  he. 
The  earth  says, —  '  It  is  not  in^me  '  ; 
'  'T  is  not  in  me,'  the  deep  replies ; 
The  same  voice  answers  from  the  skies. 
The  smile  divine  that  nature  wears 
Comes  from  some  higher  source  than  theirs  ; 
For  such  expression  never  springs 
From  lifeless  and  unmeaning  things  ; 
They  have  no  influence  to  impart, 
They  have  no  power  to  touch  the  heart, 
And  all  the  brightness  round  them  thrown 
Is  beautiful,  but  not  their  own. 

"  Then  there  must  be  a  living  soul 
That  quickens  and  informs  the  whole  ; 
There  is ;  in  nature  ever  shine 
The  kindlings  of  that  soul  divine. 
And  thus  the  rich  and  dreamy  haze, 
That  sweetly  veils  the  autumn  days, 
The  scarlet  leaves  that,  glancing  round, 
With  rainbow  fragments  strew  the  ground, 
The  clear  transparency  of  noon, 
The  bright  and  thoughtful  harvest-moon, 
And  all  around  us  and  above, 
Reflect  a  Father's  smile  of  love. 

"  I  know  that  your  young  heart  discerns 
What  man's  hard  spirit  coldly  learns,  — 
The  truth  which  throws  the  brilliant  ray 
Of  joy  upon  the  earthly  way  ; 
You  have  a  Father,  —  kind  and  true, 
And  full  of  sympathy  for  you, 
And,  though  with  warm  affection  blest, 
Remember  that  He  loves  you  best ; 
O,  turn,  then,  to  that  Friend  above, 
Resolve  to  answer  love  with  love, 
And  ever  act  the  filial  part, 
With  faithful  and  confiding  heart." 

October,  1846. 
After  an  absence  of  two  or  three   Sundays  from  his 


MEMOIR.  XC111 


pulpit,  he  returned  to  it  while  yet  too  feeble  to  stand. 
He  was  deeply  impressed  with  the  conviction,  that  he 
should  not  long  be  permitted  to  labor,  and  he  wrought 
"  while  it  was  yet  day."  He  did  not,  however,  so  dis- 
tinctly apprehend  danger  to  his  life,  as  the  necessity  of 
abandoning  his  profession,  owing  to  the  extreme  diffi- 
culty of  speaking  in  public,  occasioned  by  a  failure  of 
his  voice.  This  increased  upon  him  during  the  winter, 
and  gave  him  great  uneasiness  as  to  the  result.  So  far, 
however,  from  allowing  his  general  state  of  debility  to 
interrupt  his  course  of  duty  and  exertion,  he  never,  per- 
haps, during  any  period  of  his  life,  accomplished  so 
much  intellectual  labor.  He  furnished  more  than  his 
usual  amount  of  writing  for  the  North  American  Review  ; 
was  never  absent  from  his  pulpit  on  the  Sabbath,  and  in 
addition  to  his  accustomed  labors  on  that  day  he  took  a 
class  in  the  Sunday  School,  of  which  he  writes  to  a 
friend  as  follows  :  — 

"  I  wish  I  had  some  notes  on  the  Scripture  to  fur- 
nish you  with  ;  though  perhaps,  if  you  take  my  course, 
you  will  find  them  less  necessary.  I  have  taken  a  class 
of  young  ladies  to  teach  on  Sunday,  and  consider  the 
Scriptures  simply  as  intended  to  throw  light  on  human 
nature,  duties,  and  relations.  So  that  my  first  question 
is,  — '  What  can  I  learn  from  this  passage  which  it  will 
do  me  good  to  know  ?  '  One  is  surprised  to  find  how 
many  valuable  truths  are  thus  suggested.  For  instance, 
in  the  history  of  the  Fall  :  I  would  show  from  it  that  a 
state  of  prosperity  is  not  one  of  content,  —  which  God 
knew,  but  it  was  necessary  for  man  to  know  it  ;  that 
no  virtue  can  be  of  any  worth,  except  it  be  formed,  — 
that  is,  it  must  be  character  ;  that  happiness  and  excel- 
i 


XC1V  MEMOIR. 

lence  can  never  be  gifts,  but  must  be  results  ;  that  the 
earth  was  cursed  for  man's  sake,  that  is,  his  benefit  ; 
that  death,  too,  is  a  blessing  to  all  who  do  not  make  it 
otherwise,  —  a  blessing  to  the  surviving  in  its  influences. 

"  Truths  of  this  kind  will  start  out  before  you,  and 
with  your  power  of  language  and  your  experience  of 
life  you  will  produce  a  greater  effect  than  in  the  old  ex- 
plaining way.  In  fact,  it  is  only  thus  regarded  that  the 
Bible  has  a  deep  and  abiding  interest,  and  I  am  grati- 
fied to  see  that  my  class  evidently  feel  the  interest  which 
I  wish  to  inspire.  Teaching  them  on  the  Sabbath  is 
the  only  thing  in  the  shape  of  enjoyment  which  I  am  con- 
scious of  looking  forward  to  ;  it  carries  me  back  to  the 
days  of  anticipation  which  I  passed  out  from  long  ago." 

This  tone  of  sadness  and  discouragement  may  be 
directly  traced,  at  this  time,  to  the  state  of  physical  ex- 
haustion in  which  he  found  himself.  And  yet  it  must  be 
admitted,  that,  under  circumstances  the  most  favorable  for 
enjoyment,  he  often  was  inclined  to  despondency.  He 
reproached  himself  at  times  for  not  "  having  a  stronger 
relish  for  life  "  ;  but  he  attributed  it  to  his  physical  con- 
stitution, which  often  seemed  to  act  like  "a  weight  and  a 
chain  "  upon  his  mind.  This  natural  want  of  elasticity 
of  spirits  made  the  trials  which  came  upon  him  so  heavily 
during  the  latter  portion  of  his  life  much  harder  to  en- 
dure than  they  would  have  been  to  a  person  of  a  more 
cheerful  spirit  and  a  lighter  heart. 

In  the  month  of  April  he  was  again  visited  with  a 
severe  cough,  which  affected  his  appearance  so  much 
that  his  people  became  anxious  and  alarmed,  and  sought 
to  devise  some  mode  of  relief  to  which  he  might  be  in- 
duced to  accede.     At   a    parish  meeting    held  on    the 


MEMOIR.  XCV 

1  lth  of  May,  it  was  unanimously  voted,  that  a  committee 
be  appointed  to  confer  with  Dr.  Peabody  upon  the  ex- 
pediency of  discontinuing  his  labors  for  a  time,  or  to 
make  some  arrangements  by  which  he  may  be  partially 
relieved  from  the  active  duties  of  his  office.  It  was 
also  voted,  that,  if  he  would  take  a  recess,  the  society 
would  supply  the  pulpit  and  defray  all  his  expenses 
during  his  absence.  This  expression  on  the  part  of  the 
people  was  communicated  to  Dr.  Peabody  in  the  fol- 
lowing letter :  — 

"  Springfield,  May  12,  1847. 

"Dear  Sir,  —  Inclosed  I  send  you  the  votes  of  our 
society  at  their  meeting  of  yesterday.  Knowing  the 
anxiety  of  all  our  friends  upon  this  subject,  and  in  the 
hope  that  a  release  from  all  your  duties  to  us,  and  your 
domestic  cares,  may  result  in  great  benefit  to  your 
health,  if  not  to  its  restoration,  we  most  cordially  and 
earnestly  invite  you  to  try  the  effect  of  a  voyage  to 
Europe,  and  for  this  purpose  will  make  immediate  ar- 
rangements, as  provided  in  the  second  vote. 
"  Most  truly  and  devotedly  yours, 

"  John  Howard. 

"  In  behalf  of  the  Committee." 

To  this  communication,  Dr.  Peabody  made  the  fol- 
lowing reply  :  — 

"  Springfield,  May  15,  1847. 

"  My  dear  Sir,  —  Nothing  could  have  been  more 
unexpected  than  the  very  generous  offer  which  you  have 
so  kindly  and  considerately  communicated,  and  to 
which,  without  reflection,  I  should  be  wholly  at  a  loss 
for  a  reply.     I   certainly  do    not  need,   and    therefore 


XCV1  MEMOIR. 

could  not  think  of  receiving,  any  thing  like  the  indulgence 
proposed  ;  but  since  the  offer  is  so  liberally  made,  I 
may  say  that  my  life  is  too  monotonous  and  unexhilarat- 
ing  to  be  good  for  health  or  efficient  action  of  the  mind  ; 
and  if  I  could  make  arrangements  for  occasional  jour- 
neys, in  the  course  of  which  I  might  supply  my  pulpit 
by  exchange,  it  would  be  a  great  relief  to  me  in  tbe 
approaching  season,  not  to  speak  of  those  whose  destiny 
it  is  to  hear  me.  I  could  not  possibly  leave  my  family 
for  any  long  tour  without  a  degree  of  anxiety  which 
would  make  travelling  of  no  advantage,  and  I  do  not 
see  any  way,  except  something  resembling  that  which  I 
suggest,  in  which  the  kind  purpose  of  my  friends  can 
be  answered. 

"  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  see  you  and  the  other 
gentlemen  at  any  time  most  convenient  to  you.  I  shall 
be  at  home  this,  and  to-morrow,  and  Monday  evening. 
Perhaps  Sunday  evening  would  be  most  convenient  to 
you,  and  it  is  not  likely  that  any  calls  on  me  would 
occur  to  interrupt  us. 

"  Your  friend  and  servant, 

"  Wm.  B.  O.  Peabody. 

"  John  Howard,  Esq." 

This  expression  of  sympathy  and  consideration  on 
the  part  of  his  people  was  exceedingly  welcome  as  an 
evidence  of  their  affection  and  interest.  It  gave  an  ex- 
hilaration to  his  spirits,  and  induced  him  to  propose  to 
himself  a  visit  to  Boston  during  the  week  of  Anniver- 
saries, which  was  immediately  to  succeed  the  week 
upon  which  he  had  entered.  He  made  an  arrangement 
to  exchange  with  the  Rev.  Mr.  Thompson  of  Salem,  on 


MEMOIR.  XCV11 

the  Sabbath  succeeding  the  Anniversaries,  and  felt  that 
the  proposal  for  his  relief,  of  which  he  had  agreed  to 
avail  himself  to  a  certain  extent,  would  make  a  most 
welcome  change  in  his  spirits  and  in  his  health. 

On  Sunday,  May  16th,  he  preached  to  his  people  for 
the  last  time.  His  last  sermon  was  from  the  text, 
"  To  be  spiritually  minded  is  life  and  peace."  And 
the  hymn  with  which  he  closed  his  last  service  in  the 
church  was, 

"  Rise,  my  soul,  and  stretch  thy  wings, 
Thy  better  portion  trace  ; 
Rise  from  transitory  things 

Towards  heaven,  thy  dwelling-place." 

Throughout  the  day,  it  was  observed  that  he  spoke 
with  peculiar  earnestness,  and  with  less  appearance  of 
exhaustion  than  he  had  exhibited  for  many  weeks.  On 
Tuesday  he  was  engaged  for  some  hours  in  the  morn- 
ing superintending  the  setting  out  of  trees  in  the  ceme- 
tery, and  in  the  afternoon  he  walked  to  a  distant  part 
of  the  town,  to  visit  one  who  was  in  sickness  and  pov- 
erty. Some  one  not  belonging  to  his  parish,  on  seeing 
him  pass,  remarked,  "  There  goes  Dr.  Peabody  on  an 
errand  of  mercy.  He  looks  too  feeble  to  stand,  but 
while  he  lives  he  will  be  found  in  the  steps  of  his  Mas- 
ter, going  about  and  doing  good."  On  Wednesday, 
although  far  from  well,  he  remained  nearly  all  day  at  his 
desk,  endeavouring  to  finish  an  article  which  was  prom- 
ised for  the  next  number  of  the  North  American 
Review.  He  hardly  left  his  desk  through  the  day,  and 
at  night,  complaining  of  chilliness  and  exhaustion,  he 
went  early  to  bed.  The  next  morning  he  attempted  to 
rise,  but  finding  that  he  could  not  support  himself,  he 
%  * 


XCV111  MEMOIR. 

went  back  to  his  bed,  from  which  he  never  rose  again. 
He  dictated  to  his  son  the  closing  pages  of  the  review 
which  he  was  so  anxious  to  complete,  but  seemed  un- 
equal afterwards  to  any  mental  or  physical  exertion.  He 
appeared  to  be  entirely  prostrated,  and  would  repeated- 
ly say,  /  want  rest.  On  one  occasion  he  asked  to  be 
left  alone,  saying,  "  I  want  to  be  still,  — still  as  death." 
Yet  he  would  occasionally  be  roused  by  a  visit  or  a 
message  from  a  friend  ;  and  to  one  sitting  by  him,  who 
asked  if  the  perfume  of  cologne  water  was  still  agreeable 
to  him,  as  it  had  usually  been,  he  replied  with  energy, 
"  Give  me  the  smell  of  an  open  field, —  it  speaks  of 
the  goodness  and  love  of  God."  And  again,  when  a 
flower  was  handed  to  him,  he  exclaimed,  "  Beautiful  ! 
beautiful !  but  not  more  so  than  many  things  which  show 
God's  love  for  us."  It  was,  however,  very  seldom 
that  he  uttered  distinctly  any  continued  expression  of 
thought.  At  times  his  mind  was  evidently  wandering, 
and  he  constantly  shrank  from  any  attempt  to  speak 
which  could  be  avoided.  Those  who  were  near  him 
felt,  however,  from  the  expression  of  his  countenance, 
and  from  some  other  indications,  that  he  was  not  un- 
aware of  the  change  that  was  approaching.  On  the 
Tuesday  evening  before  his  death,  just  as  the  "  western 
evening  light "  was  kindling  the  landscape  after  an  after- 
noon shower,  his  physician  drew  aside  the  curtain,  and 
asked  him,  if  he  should  not  raise  him  up  to  look  out 
upon  the  beautiful  view  from  his  window.  After  open- 
ing the  curtain,  he  returned  to  his  side,  and  found  him 
completely  overpowered  by  his  emotion,  and  in  tears. 
He  said,  "I  am  wrong,  —  it  is  too  much  for  you." 
Dr.    Peabody  motioned  to  him  that  he  would    like  to 


MEMOIR.  XC1X 

have  him  wait  a  while,  and  then  said,  —  "I  was  think- 
ing of  a  death  upon  this  bed  such  as  never  was  before, 
and  never  will  be  again,  when  the  dying  one  asked  that 
she  might  be  raised  up  to  look  out  once  more  upon  that 
view." 

Throughout  the  week  he  seemed  constantly  sinking, 
and  on  Friday,  May  28th,  he  lost  the  power  of  speech, 
and  seemed  almost  unconscious 'at  times  of  what  was 
going  on  around  him.  At  six  o'clock  in  the  evening,  his 
friend,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Osgood,  came  to  his  bedside,  as 
he  said,  "  to  look  upon  his  face  once  more."  He  ex- 
pressed, in  tender  and  affectionate  words,  his  sympathy 
and  prayers  for  him.  Dr.  Peabody  evidently  heard 
him,  and  endeavoured  to  articulate  his  thanks.  This 
was  the  last  conscious  recognition,  on  his  part,  of  any 
one  about  him.  He  continued  to  breathe  with  difficulty 
until  near  midnight,  when  he  fell  asleep,  gently  as  an 
infant,  and, 

"  Life's  long  warfare  closed  at  last, 
His  soul  was  found  in  peace." 

The  morning  after  his  spirit  departed,  as  those  were 
standing  near  him  to  whom  in  the  Sunday  School  he 
had  spoken,  the  last  time  he  met  them  there,  of  the  true 
life,  they  were  most  touchingly  reminded  of  his  last 
words.  "  Why  should  we,"  said  he,  "  speak  of  the  de- 
parted as  dead  ;  it  is  a  cold,  hard  word  ;  when  I  am 
gone,  I  hope  no  one  will  say,  '  He  is  dead.'  " 

On  Saturday,  May  29th,  a  parish  meeting  was  called 
to  make  arrangements  for  the  funeral  services.  It  was 
fully  attended  by  the  male  and  female  members  of  the 
society,  and  utterance  was  given  to  the  most  touching 
and  spontaneous  expressions  of  affection  and  grief.     At 


C  MEMOIR. 

the  funeral,  on  the  following  Tuesday,  the  church  was 
thronged  with  mourners  from  all  the  societies  in  town. 
Dr.  Gannett  of  Boston  delivered  a  very  appropriate 
discourse,  in  which  he  unfolded  the  inspiring  doctrine 
of  the  "  identity  of  the  spiritual  life  on  earth  with  the 
future  life  in  heaven,"  showing,  in  view  of  this  doctrine, 
what  is  the  true  life,  and  in  what  sense  we  should  regard 
that  which  is  commonly  called  death.  By  a  peculiarly 
natural  and  happy  transition,  he  then  passed  to  the  mem- 
ory of  him  in  whom  "  was  seen  a  most  impressive  ex- 
ample of  the  true  life."  The  remains  of  the  beloved 
and  revered  pastor  were  followed  to  the  cemetery,  where 
they  were  laid  in  the  spot  marked  out  by  himself,  a  short 
time  before  his  death.  That  beautiful  hymn  of  Watts, 
"  There  is  a  land  of  pure  delight,"  was  sung  around 
the  open  grave  ;  after  which,  the  throng  of  mourners 
.slowly  and  sadly  departed,  leaving  him  in  the  spot  he 
so  dearly  loved. 

No  place  on  earth  is  more  associated  with  his  pres- 
ence than  this.  He  was  deeply  interested  in  first  pro- 
jecting the  cemetery.  He  gave  his  time  and  personal 
attention  in  the  laying  out  of  the  grounds.  He  marked 
out  the  paths,  named  them,  and,  even  with  his  own 
hand,  printed  the  letters  which  now  point  them  out  to 
the  visitor.  His  voice  was  heard  here  as  he  performed 
the  service  of  consecration.  Here  he  passed,  at  some 
seasons,  many  hours  of  every  day,  either  superintend- 
ing and  assisting  in  the  labor  of  arranging  the  grounds, 
or  walking  through  the  paths  in  silent  preparation  of  his 
Sabbath  services.  Here,  too,  those  dearest  to  him  had 
already  been  laid.  And  when  we  turned  away,  it 
seemed   not  like   leaving  him   in   a   strange   place,   but 


MEMOIR.  CI 

within  the  familiar  sound  of  falling  waters,  and  among 
the  familiar  trees,  whose  green  and  protecting  shadows 
bent  as  if  in  love  and  care  over  his  grave.  Many  will 
be  led  to  this  spot  by  their  reverence  for  him.  In  his 
own  words,  "  at  every  season,  whether  in  the  tender 
green  of  spring,  the  bright  radiance  of  summer,  or  the 
pensive  and  rainbow-colored  autumn,  it  is  a  place  where 
thoughtfulness  can  indulge  in  its  meditation  and  affection 
give  way  to  its  tears,  secure  that  nothing  shall  be  there 
to  disturb  its  quiet  repose  ;  for  the  genius  of  the  place 
has  power,  and  few  indeed  there  are  so  lost  in  hardness 
and  folly,  that  they  are  not  softened  to  at  least  a  tran- 
sient solemnity  when  standing  on  that  holy  ground." 

And  here  the  ministry  of  this  faithful  servant  of  God 
seems  ended.  We  can  no  longer  listen  to  his  teachings 
of  wisdom  and  of  love,  and  nothing  remains  to  us  of 
his  pure  and  beneficent  life  but  the  precious  memory  of 
his  example  and  the  blessed  hope  of  reunion  with  him 
in  heaven.  Yet  we  cannot  feel  that  his  memory  and  ex- 
ample are  to  pass  away.  There  was  an  influence  that 
went  out  from  his  life  and  character  which  cannot  be 
lightly  estimated,  and  we  would  seek  to  perpetuate  it,  if 
we  can  do  so,  by  dwelling  upon  some  traits  which  seem 
to  us  most  remarkable. 

Perhaps  the  most  striking  thing  about  Dr.  Peabody's 
mind  was  the  combination  of  qualities  which  are  often 
supposed  to  be  inconsistent  with  each  other  ;  —  his 
sound,  practical,  good  sense,  and  his  exquisite  taste  for 
the  beautiful  ;  his  imaginative  powers,  and  his  faithful 
attention  to  the  details  both  of  life  and  knowledge  ;  his 
"  poet's  eye,"  and  his  calm  and  profound  analysis  of  all 


Cll  MEMOIR. 

objects  of  thought  and  sight  ;  his  lively  fancy,  and  the 
accurate  precision  of  his  mental  habits  and  his  state- 
ments of  fact.  It  was  this  which  gave  him  his  strong 
hold  upon  the  confidence  of  clear-headed  and  sensible 
men.  They  saw  that  there  must  be  a  foundation  for 
what  he  said  with  regard  to  spiritual  things,  because,  in 
matters  which  came  within  the  sphere  of  their  own  ob- 
servation, they  could  always  trust  his  judgment  and  his 
practical  knowledge.  Then,  too,  how  wonderful  his 
keen  perception  of  all  the  individual  peculiarities  of 
character,  and  his  native  talent  for  satire,  combined  with 
such  exquisite  discretion,  not  only  in-  speech,  but  in 
thought,  and  such  an  ever  wakeful  tenderness  for  the 
feelings  and  claims  of  others.  He  had  the  broadest  and 
most  all-embracing  charity,  and  this  led  you  at  times  to 
feel  as  if  the  defects  of  those  around  him  were  hidden 
from  him,  when,  in  reality,  no  one  could  be  more  sen- 
sitive to  every  form  of  evil  and  every  breath  of  folly  or 
of  sin. 

He  always  contended  that  sincerity  and  Christian 
courtesy  need  not  be  separated.  "  I  have  no  more 
right,"  said  he,  "  to  volunteer  an  opinion  of  my  own 
which  I  know  will  wound  the  feelings  of  my  companion, 
than  I  have  to  take  advantage  of  my  neighbourhood  to 
stick  a  pin  into  him.  We  may  always  bear  our  testi- 
mony to  the  truth,  and  leave  those  who  desire  to  know 
our  sentiments  in  no  doubt  as  to  what  they  are,  and 
when  our  counsel  or  advice  is  sought,  may  give  it  in  the 
fullest  plainness  of  Christian  sincerity.  But  '  speak- 
ing one's  mind,'  as  it  is  called,  is  too  often  a  selfish 
indulgence  of  personal  feeling,  and  we  cannot  too  care- 
fully watch  the  motives  which  impel  us  to  it." 


MEMOIR.  Clll 

Any  sketch  of  the  character  of  his  mind  would  be 
felt  to  be  imperfect,  which  left  out  of  view  that  vein  of 
delicate  and  irresistible  humor  which  added  a  never 
failing  charm  to  his  conversation,  and  often  found  its 
way  into  his  graver  writings.  This  talent,  which  is  too 
often  a  snare  to  its  possessor,  betraying  him  into  a  dis- 
regard of  the  feelings  of  others,  or  leading  him  at  times 
to  view  in  a  ludicrous  light  subjects  which  should  be 
always  sacred,  was  never  used  by  him  excepting  to  add 
a  zest  to  the  intercourse  of  familiar  friendship,  or  to 
give  interest  to  those  curious  details  of  knowledge,  which, 
when  recommended  by  the  charm  of  his  inexhaustible 
wit,  were  welcomed  with  delight  by  every  one.  Not 
only  did  he  guard  with  anxious  tenderness  all  those  mis- 
fortunes and  follies  which  are  too  often  a  mark  for  rid- 
icule, but  never,  in  his  most  playful  moods  did  he  let  fall 
a  remark  which  might  give  an  association  of  levity  to  a 
subject  in  itself  elevated  or  sacred.  You  could  never 
remember  any  thing  which  seemed  inharmonious  with 
his  highest  moments.  His  genial  and  sportive  humor- 
seemed  as  much  in  sympathy  with  all  things  generous 
and  kind,  as  the  glancing  sunbeam  which  sends  a  smile 
over  nature's  face,  and  kindles  all  objects  with  its  cheer- 
ful light.  Those  who  remember  him  best  will  need 
but  this  hint  to  recall  the  brilliancy  of  his  wit,  —  the 
unfailing  resources  of  his  imagination,  —  which  made  him 
in  conversation  the  most  fascinating,  as  well  as  instruc- 
tive companion. 

Dr.  Peabody  took  a  very  deep  interest  in  the  public 
affairs  of  the  day  ;  but  he  always  seemed  to  regard 
them  as  a  part  of  the  continued  history  of  the  world, 
and    as    such    worthy  of   attention    and   interest.      He 


CIV  MEMOIR. 

therefore  did  not  identify  his  opinions  with  his  passions 
and  prejudices,  and  was  not  unfitted  by  the  influence  of 
any  personal  considerations  to  be  an  expounder  of  the 
highest  principles.  We  might  best  describe  his  position 
in  relation  to  public  interests,  by  again  quoting  from  his 
tribute  to  the  memory  of  the  sainted  Henry  Ware  the 
following  passage  :  —  "  With  respect  to  the  great  moral 
questions  of  the  day,  in  all  of  which  he  was  deeply 
interested,  he  was  equally  true  to  his  conscience,  equally 
independent  of  numbers  and  of  party.  He  had  that 
moderation  which  the  Apostle  recommends,  a  trait  of 
character  not  estimated,  because  not"  understood  ;  be- 
cause few  men  know  how  difficult  it  is  to  maintain,  when 
parties  are  thundering  in  the  ear  their  '  Lo  here  !  '  and 
'  Lo  there  !  '  When  one  set  of  men  are  complaining  of 
your  indifference,  and  another  of  your  violence,  it  is 
only  a  clear  mind  which  can  trace  out  its  moral  path  be- 
fore it  ;  only  a  strong  heart  which  walks  straight  on  in 
it,  unmoved  by  reproach  from  either  side." 

The  universality,  as  well  as  the  accuracy,  of  his 
knowledge  was  amazing.  Whether  you  sought  informa- 
tion of  him  on  any  point  of  history  or  science, —  wheth- 
er you  would  ask  about  the  stars  or  the  flowers,  the 
birds  or  the  insects,  —  his  prompt  and  full  replies  gave 
you  an  impression  that  this  was  a  subject  of  special  in- 
terest to  him.  He  was  never  hurried.  He  rarely  plead- 
ed as  an  excuse  for  the  neglect  of  any  thing  that  he 
"  had  so  much  to  do"  ;  and  never,  in  the  most  engross- 
ing preparations  for  any  service,  denied  himself  to  one 
of  his  parish  who  wished  to  see  him.  He  hardly  seemed 
conscious  how  much  labor  he  performed,  because  he 
never  stopped  to  rest.     His  habits  of  early  rising  gave 


MEMOIR.  CV 

him  a  great  many  hours  in  the  day.  He  never  remained 
in  bed,  during  the  last  ten  years  of  his  life,  after  half  past 
four  in  summer,  and  the  hours  which  he  gave  to  labor 
in  his  garden  were  also  filled  with  preparations  for  his 
Sabbath  services.  He  could  return  from  these  fatiguing 
exertions  out  of  doors,  and,  going  into  his  study,  could 
transcribe,  as  he  expressed  it,  from  his  mind  what  he  had 
been  arranging  while  his  hands  weVe  busy.  His  habits 
with  regard  to  the  preparation  of  his  discourses  may 
best  be  described  by  quoting  from  the  "•  Familiar  Ad- 
dress," from  which  large  extracts  were  introduced  into 
the  earlier  pages  of  this  Memoir. 

"I  do  not  believe  any  thing  worth  hearing  or  reading 
can  be  produced  without  labor,  and  the  labor  of  writ- 
ing wears  upon  the  nerves  and  exhausts  the  spirit  more, 
perhaps,  than  any  other.  Let  any  man  sit  down  to  pre- 
pare an  address  for  some  public  occasion,  and  he  will 
have  an  idea  of  this  labor.  Doubtless  it  becomes  easier 
by  habit,  but  the  effect  of  routine  and  the  perpetual 
recurrence  of  the  demand  once,  if  not  twice,  in  every 
week,  creates  a  difficulty  on  the  other  side.  My  own 
habit  has  been,  never  to  sit  down  to  consider  what  I  shall 
write,  as  many  do.  I  find  that  my  mind,  such  as  it  is, 
acts  most  freely  away  from  the  study  and  in  the  pres- 
ence of  nature.  I  therefore  construct  in  my  own 
mind  an  exact  image  of  every  thing  which  I  intend  to 
write,  and  this,  when  completed,  can  either  be  spoken 
or  written,  as  the  case  requires.  My  sermons  are  thus 
written  in  my  mind  during  my  walks  in  the  fields,  the 
cemetery,  or  the  garden,  and  when  matured  are  com- 
mitted to  paper  in  very  little  time.  This  has  given  the 
impression  that  I  write  easily  and  rapidly,  when  in  truth 

3 


CV1  MEMOIR. 

I  have  no  advantage  in  this  respect  except,  perhaps,  that 
of  a  better  system,  which,  after  the  experience  of  years, 
I  would  recommend  to  every  writer,  whatever  his  pro- 
fession may  be." 

Dr.  Peabody  once  said  of  himself,  to  a  person  who 
was  expressing  surprise  at  the  amount  of  writing  which 
he  performed  in  a  short  time,  that  he  could  strike  off 
work  more  rapidly  than  many  others,  because  the  engine 
was  kept  so  constantly  in  motion  that  it  never  got  cold. 
He  was  always  intensely  occupied  with  some  subject  of 
thought.  During  the  long  winter  evenings  he  could 
never  use  his  eyes,  and  in  the  winter  .of  1S43-4,  in 
answer  to  a  friend  who  asked  him  how  he  contrived  to 
occupy  them,  he  said  that  he  was  so  much  afraid  of 
reverie  in  the  enfeebled  state  of  his  mind  and  spirits,  that 
he  made  it  a  rule  to  keep  some  subject  of  active  thought 
constantly  before  him,  and  in  order  to  make  sure  that 
he  did  not  deceive  himself  in  the  matter,  he  was  always 
composing.  He  had  so  trained  his  mind,  that  he  could 
leave  off  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence  if  he  were  inter- 
rupted by  a  visitor,  and  resume  his  labors  without  losing 
a  word,  the  moment  the  door  was  shut.  It  was  in  this 
way  that  he  wrote  his  lecture  on  the  Anglo-Saxon  Race, 
which  he  delivered  in  Salem  in  November,  1843,  and 
the  Life  of  Oglethorpe,  written  in  the  December  follow- 
ing, besides  the  weekly  sermons  and  lectures  of  that 
winter  ;  and  the  habit  which  he  formed  at  that  time  he 
continued  during  the  remainder  of  his  life. 

What  wonder  that  he  sunk  under  such  an  unnatural 
amount  of  mental  and  physical  exertion  ?  In  his  diary, 
we  find  the  following  record,  November  19th,  1843  :  — 
"  To-day  I  preached   two  sermons   which   I  wrote   in 


MEMOIR.  CV11 

Salem  ;  written  in  the  heavy  hours  of  night,  and  com- 
mitted to  paper  in  the  morning.  So  the  time  is  not 
wholly  lost,  and  if  it  does  not  wear  too  far  upon  my 
strength  I  shall  not  much  care.  It  gives  quiet  and  un- 
broken leisure  to  hold  communion  with  God,  and  to 
cherish  that  nearness  to  him  which  must  hereafter  be 
the  dearest  treasure  of  my  soul." 

One  of  the  most  touching  things  in  connection  with 
the  effect  of  his  sorrow  was  to  see  how  carefully  he 
guarded  himself  against  that  weak  indulgence  of  it  which 
would  unfit  him  for  the  active  and  pressing  duties  of 
life.  He  only  asked,  with  more  searching  scrutiny, 
"What  remains  for  me  to  do?"  He,  therefore,  not 
only  gave  himself,  as  we  have  seen,  with  unremitted  de- 
votion, to  his  intellectual  and  professional  labors,  but  he 
immediately  took  hold  of  the  details  of  life  and  domes- 
tic care,  from  which  he  had  always  been  spared,  and 
found  relief  in  the  faithful  and  thorough  performance  of 
those  duties  which  were  least  congenial  to  his  tastes  and 
previous  habits,  seeming  to  embrace  almost  with  eager- 
ness every  form  of  self-denial  and  painful  effort.  From 
the  period  of  their  mother's  death,  he  devoted  himself 
to  his  children.  In  a  letter  written  during  the  last  win- 
ter of  his  life,  he  says  :  —  "I  now  keep  school  for  the 
children  every  evening.  Besides  aiding  the  younger 
ones,  I  am  also  desirous  to  keep  F.  connected  with 
some  intellectual  and  improving  pursuits,  which  would 
not  be  easy,  confined  as  he  is  in  the  bank  all  day,  with- 
out a  strong  manifestation  of  interest  on  my  part.  We 
are  not  liable  to  much  interruption,  and  though,  after 
writing  so  much  in  the  day,  it  is  not  just  the  recreation 
that  I  should  select,  still  there  is  always  more  satisfaction 
in  doing  than  in  neglecting  one's  duty." 


CV111  MEMOIR. 

In  the  course  of  the  same  winter,  one  of  his  youngest 
boys  left  him  to  pass  a  few  months  away  from  home. 
At  parting  he  gave  him  the  following  directions,  with  the 
request  that  he  would  read  them  daily. 

"1.  Never  forget  that  you  have  a  Heavenly  Father. 
Speak  to  him  every  day.  It  is  ungrateful  to  neglect 
him,  and  if  you  do,  you  will  repent  it  bitterly  for  ever. 

"  2.  Remember  your  friends  at  home,  and  how  anx- 
ious they  are  for  your  welfare  and  improvement.  If  you 
will  not  take  the  trouble  to  write  to  them,  they  can  have 
no  confidence  in  your  affections. 

"  3.  Be  affectionate  and  faithful  to  the  friends  around 
you.  Give  up  your  own  inclinations  when  they  inter- 
fere with  theirs. 

"  4.  Govern  your  passions  firmly.  You  can  be  their 
master  ;  do  not  be  their  slave. 

"5.  Always  attend  to  duties  first,  and  afterwards  to 
pleasures.  Finish  with  your  studies  before  you  allow 
your  amusements  to  begin. 

"  6.  Do  not  read  much  fiction.  It  is  to  the  mind 
like  drinking  to  the  body  :  it  intoxicates  and  destroys 
the  power  of  the  mind  for  any  strong  and  useful  exer- 
tion. 

"7.  Ask  of  every  thing  which  you  are  disposed  or 
tempted  to  do,  Is  this  right  ?  If  it  is,  do  it,  however 
much  it  costs  you  ;  if  it  is  not,  let  nothing  induce  you  to 
do  it.  Every  time  you  obey  your  conscience,  you  in- 
crease its  power  within  you.  Each  time  you  act  against 
it,  you  do  something  to  destroy  its  power. 

"8.  Never  forget  that  you  are  on  the  way  to  a  world 
where  you  must  answer  for  every  thing  that  you  have 
done.  Live  so  that  you  may  give  in  your  account  with 
joy,  and  not  with  dread." 


MEMOIR.  C1X 

He  was  always  anxious  to  make  them  realize  what 
are  the  true  objects  of  life,  and  to  lead  them  to  the  high- 
est aims  in  the  formation  of  character.  A  series  of 
minute  directions  to  this  effect  was  written  down  by  him 
for  the  use  of  one  of  his  older  children,  but  a  few  weeks 
before  his  death,  beginning  thus  :  —  "  Character  is  the 
familiar  and  commanding  use  of  the  power  to  pursue 
the  right  without  submission  to  circumstances  and  incli- 
nations. When  the  power  does  not  exist,  or  is  not 
used,  the  living  thing  can  never  be  a  man." 

In  further  illustration  of  the  views  which  he  held,  and 
which  he  always  aimed  to  give  his  children,  of  the  pur- 
pose of  existence,  we  copy  the  following  extract  from 
a  letter  addressed  to  one  of  his  sons,  dated  June  27th, 
1846:  — 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  begin  to  be  interested  in 
the  great  problems  of  existence.  They  have  in  all  ages 
taxed  the  energies  of  active  minds,  and  such  minds  have 
been  as  unable  as  you  to  see  why  this  world  should 
have  been  made  as  it  is,  and  why  God  pronounced  it 
good.  The  mystery  never  was  explained  till  Christiani- 
ty taught  us  the  supreme  importance  and  value  of  char- 
acter, —  showing  that  the  formation  of  character  in  prep- 
aration for  more  advanced  existence  is  the  chief  consid- 
eration, and  comfort  and  happiness,  which  generally  stand 
foremost  to  our  minds,  are  only  incidental  things.  This 
clears  all  up.  We  see  that  the  world,  with  its  difficul- 
ties and  trials,  is  precisely  what  is  wanted  for  the  pur- 
pose. The  same  purpose  evidently  could  not  be  an- 
swered without  such  discipline  and  training  as  we  en- 
counter here,  and  we  see  that  a  Heavenly  Father,  who 
consults  not  our  wishes,  but  our  welfare,  has  subjected 
j* 


CX  -MEMOIR. 

us  to  this  process  of  education,  for  such  it  is.  Children 
in  schools  are  constantly  asking,  '  What  good  will  these 
studies,  and  this  whole  machinery  of  education,  rdo  ?  ' 
Those  who  are  a  little  ahead  of  them  can  see  the  bene- 
fit of  these  things,  while  they  cannot.  And  so  those 
who  make  character  the  great  aim  and  effort  of  life  will 
discern  the  fitness  of  this  world  and  its  changes.  They 
admire  the  wisdom  of  its  arrangements  and  adaptations, 
and  they  gratefully  pronounce  it  good." 

We  should  certainly  omit  a  most  remarkable  feature 
of  his  mind  and  habits,  if  we  did  not  speak  of  his  un- 
wearied study  of  the  Bible.  He  gave  the  strongest  im- 
pression of  what  might  be  gained,  not  only  in  practical 
excellence,  but  in  intellectual  power,  by  a  devoted  study 
of  its  spirit  and  its  letter.  We  hear  those  who  were 
privileged  to  listen  to  his  luminous  expositions  of  Scrip- 
ture speak  of  the  wonderful  and  living  way  in  which  it 
all  seemed  to  lie  open  before  him.  It  is  still  more  in- 
structive to  see  how  it  was  the  bread  of  life  to  him,  and 
how  it  became  his  intellectual  as  well  as  his  spiritual 
food.  His  taste  led  him  strongly  in  early  life  to  works 
of  imagination,  and  few  persons  had  his  degree  of  fa- 
miliarity with  the  best  works  of  fiction  and  with  every 
branch  of  general  literature.  His  wonderfully  retentive 
and  accurate  memory  made  these  stores  available  in  the 
latter  portion  of  his  life,  when,  in  writing  upon  general 
subjects,  as  he  was  called  to  do  in  the  exercise  of  his 
functions  as  a  reviewer,  his  endless  variety  of  illustra- 
tion, and  his  stores  of  poetic  quotations,  gave  great  ani- 
mation and  interest  to  every  subject  which  he  touched. 
At  this  period,  however,  he  frequently  spoke  of  his  en- 
tire want  of  interest  in  all  works  of  fiction,  and  in  writ- 


MEMOIR.  CXI 

ing  to  a  friend,  he  says  :  —  " is  deep  in  Eugene 

Sue's  literature,  —  an  individual  of  whom  I  shall  never 
ask  whence  he  came,  or  whither  he  is  going  ;  only  too 
grateful  that  I  am  not  condemned  to  read  him  in  penance 
for  the  sins  of  other  days."  He  sometimes  attempted 
to  read  those  works  of  fiction  which  have  delighted  the 
reading  world  during  the  last  few  years,  but  repeatedly 
said,  "  I  have  completely  lost  my  taste  for  such  read- 
ing." And  then  would  speak  of  the  untiring  freshness 
which  he  always  found  in  the  Scriptures.  The  word  of 
God  was  always  new  and  always  suggestive  ;  and  he 
was  unwearied  in  his  efforts  to  induce  those  in  whom 
he  was  interested  to  find  there  all  that  he  found. 

He  was  often  urged,  by  those  who  had  listened  to  his 
extemporaneous  expositions  of  Scripture,  to  prepare  a 
commentary  upon  the  Bible,  which  should  fill  a  place 
not  yet  occupied  by  any.  This  would  have  been  to 
him  the  most  delightful  of  all  occupations,  and  he  always 
looked  forward  to  it  in  the  hope  that  at  some  future  time 
he  should  secure  the  leisure  to  prepare  it  and  the  means- 
to  publish  it.  During  the  last  year  of  his  life,  measures 
were  taken  to  secure  these  to  him,  and  had  he  lived,  we 
should  have  seen  the  work  accomplished. 

"  As  a  theologian,  Dr.  Peabody  cared  not  to  place 
himself  among  the  champions  of  any  class  of  religious 
opinions.  Decided  in  his  own  belief,  frank  in  its 
avowal,  and  '  ready  always  to  give  an  answer  to  every 
one  that  asked  him  a  reason  of  the  hope  that  was  in 
him,'  he  had  none  of  the  temper  of  the  dogmatist  or 

the  sectarian The  amenity  of  disposition   and 

the  personal  humility  which  sealed  his  lips  against  all 
censorious  or  injurious   remark   disposed  him  to  avoid 


CX11  MEMOIR. 

the  asperities  of  theological  warfare.  Hence,  during  his 
whole  residence  in  this  town,  he  was  a  peacemaker,  re- 
garded with  scarcely  less  esteem  and  treated  with  not 
less  confidence  beyond  than  within  the  limits  of  his  own 
congregation.  His  exhortation  was  that  of  one  who 
neither  loved  strife,  nor  felt  any  superiority  over  those 
who  differed  from  him.  '  Cherish,'  said  he,  '  with  all  your 
care  the  spirit  of  your  Master,  and  remember  that  his 
spirit  can  dwell  only  in  a  gentle,  forbearing,  patient,  and 
loving  heart.'  Such  a  heart  he  carried  in  his  own 
breast,  and  if  we  desire  proof  that  it  was  understood  in 
this  community,  we  need  only  look  on  this  concourse  of 
mourners,  and  observe  how  entirely  sectarian  differences 
are  forgotten  in  a  common  sorrow."* 

The  common  respect  and  common  sorrow  are  well 
expressed  in  the  following  letter  from  the  pastor  of  the 
First  Church.  It  was  written  in  reply  to  an  invitation 
to  be  present  at  the  installation  of  Dr.  Peabody's  suc- 
cessor, and  leaves  us  at  a  loss  which  most  to  admire,  — 
the  spirit  that  dictated  the  eulogy,  or  the  character  that 
drew  it  forth. 


i  £  M% ,  "  Springfield,  January  24th,  18* 
"  To  the  Committee  of  the  Third  Congregational  So- 
ciety in  Springfield. 

"  Gentlemen,  —  I  received  your  very  kind  invitation 
to  be  present  at  the  services  preparatory  to  the  installation 
of  the  man  whom  you  have  chosen  to  fill  the  place  of 
your  late  beloved  pastor.  I  use  the  expression  as  my 
own.     No  man  had  a  higher  sense  of  the  moral  excel- 

*  Dr.  Gannett's  Funeral  Discourse,  p.  28. 


MEMOIR.  CX111 

lence  and  Christian  courtesy  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Peabody 
than  I  had.    Our  intercourse  was  always  pleasant  and  sat- 
isfactory to  me,  and  I  should  have  delighted  to  have  told 
the  congregation  of  mourners  at  his  grave  how  much  I 
esteemed  him,  and  how  highly  I  thought  of  his  deep-toned 
piety  as  I  saw  it  expressed  in  his  humble  resignation  to 
the  Divine  will  in  the  hours  of  his  sorrow,  under  his  se- 
vere bereavements.    Never  shall  I  forget  the  impressions 
which  I  received  in  those  interviews.     I  said  to  myself, 
'  Here  is  the  patience  and  faith  of  the  saints.'     I  surely 
cannot  desire  a  greater  blessing  on  your  society,  than 
that  his  successor  may  possess  a  spirit  as  kind  and  gen- 
tle as  his.     For  the  regard  expressed  for  me,  you  will 
accept  my  sincere  thanks.     I  have  never  had  it  in  my 
power  to  do  you  many  acts  of  kindness,  but  if  you  had 
needed  them  as  a  society,  I  assure  you   I  should  have 
performed  them  with  pleasure.     I  cannot  wish  any  thing 
more  agreeable  to  myself  than  that  my  intercourse  with 
your  pastor,  whom  you  have  chosen,  may  be  of  a  simi- 
lar character  to  that  which  I  enjoyed  with  him  '  who  is 
not.'     Permit  me  to  express  the  hope,  that  the  mantle 
of  the  departed  may  have  fallen  upon  the  living  prophet, 
and  that  under  his  ministrations  you  and  your  children 
may  '  grow  as  the  lily  and  cast  forth  your  roots  as  Leb- 
anon,' and  '  bring  forth  fruit  in  old  age.' 

"  Accept,  Gentlemen,  my  regards  for  you  personally 
and  my  wish  for  your  individual  happiness. 

Samuel  Osgood. 

"  Henry  Sterns, 
John  Howard, 
Samuel  Bowles,  \  Committee." 

J.    WlLLARD, 

Simon    Sanborn, 


CX1V  MEMOIR. 

Peace  was  indeed,  with  Dr.  Peabody,  the  language  of 
his  lips  and  of  his  life.  He  made  the  duty  of  love  and 
forgiveness  often  the  subject  of  his  exhortations  from  the 
pulpit,  and  he  was  not  content  to  confine  his  influence 
to  his  public  services,  but  would  urge  the  matter  most 
affectionately  and  earnestly  upon  those  in  whom  he  was 
interested,  whenever  he  found  opportunity  to  do  so. 
In  conversation  with  a  friend  during  the  last  year  of  his 
life,  he  said,  — "I  will  not  judge  others,  but  this  I  must 
say  for  myself;  that  if  a  human  being  lived  to  whom  I 
could  not  cordially  extend  my  hand  in  sympathy  and 
kindness,  I  should  feel  that  the  gate  of  heaven  was 
closed  to  me."  This  disposition  seemed  to  be  com- 
pletely understood  by  all  those  with  whom  he  came  in 
contact,  and  no  unkind  jealousy  could  express  itself  in 
his  presence.  By  the  force  of  sympathy,  all  ungenerous 
and  resentful  passions  were  for  the  time  annihilated. 

During  every  period  of  Dr.  Peabody's  life,  his  love  of 
nature  added  greatly  to  his  happiness.  This  was  man- 
ifested very  strongly  in  his  earlier  writings,  in  his  poems, 
and  in  the  admirable  instructions  which  he  gave  the 
children  in  his  Sunday  school.  His  intimate  acquaint- 
ance with  its  most  interesting  forms  and  aspects  added 
a  peculiar  zest  to  his  enjoyment  of  nature.  He  seemed 
always  at  home  when  he  spoke  of  the  wonderful  objects 
by  which  we  are  surrounded,  and  he  loved  to  introduce 
others  to  the  sources  of  his  pleasure.  After  the  afflic- 
tions which  threw  so  deep  a  shadow  over  the  scenes  of 
his  former  joys,  his  love  of  nature  seemed  only  to  grow 
more  intense.  We  find  in  his  diary  the  following 
record  :  — 

"  Dec.  17.     I  was   delighted   this  morning  with   the 


MEMOIR.  CXV 

appearance  of  the  snow  on  all  the  branches  of  the  trees. 
It  is  a  fairy-like  beauty.  It  was  followed  by  a  rain 
which  is  still  falling  ;  they  call  it  gloomy,  —  but  is  any 
thing  gloomy  in  the  creation  of  God  ? " 

And  again  :  — 

"  Dec.  27.  The  trees  covered  with  snow  this  morn- 
ing. What  a  beautiful  sight !  What  a  beautiful  world  ! 
And  how  strange  that  I  should  be* more  sensible  of  its 
beauty  than  ever,  now  the  being  whom  I  love  best  has 
left  me  !  It  is  not  her  loss,  however,  but  her  spiritual 
presence,  which  strengthens  hope  and  resolution,  and  in- 
creases my  power  to  enjoy  every  thing  which  displays 
the  love  and  blessing  of  my  Heavenly  Father." 

One  dark  November  day,  when  a  friend  remarked  to 
him  upon  the  dreary  look  of  all  without,  he  said,  — "  All 
days  are  pleasant  to  me  ;  there  is  not  an  expression  on 
the  face  of  nature  which  I  do  not  love."  At  the  same 
time,  he  spoke  of  the  new  feeling  with  which  he  had 
looked  upon  the  earth  since  the  form  he  so  much  loved 
had  been  laid  there.  He  loved  it  as  he  had  never  done 
before.  How  much  this  association  endears  and  conse- 
crates the  beautiful  spot  where  they  repose  together  ! 

Perhaps  nothing  was  oftener  remarked  about  Dr. 
Peabody,  than  that  he  was  in  all  places  and  under  all 
circumstances  the  Christian  minister.  This  was  never 
laid  aside  in  the  most  unrestrained  private  intercourse. 
His  reverence  for  sacred  things  was  beautiful  and  touch- 
ing. No  one  could  feel  that  there  was  any  formality  in 
it,  and  the  spirit  was  contagious.  It  seemed  entirely 
in  keeping  with  the  habit  of  his  thoughts,  and  you  could 
not  regard  it  as  any  thing  but  the  result  of  a  peculiar 
nearness  to  the  most   sacred  and   sanctifying  influences. 


CXV1  MEMOIR. 

"  Was  it  not  a  remark  often  heard,  as,  with  his  calm  but 
not  stern  demeanour,  and  his  air  of  spiritual  thought,  he 
walked  along  your  streets  on  some  errand  of  duty  or  of 
love,  '  There  goes  a  disciple  of  the  great  Master  '  ? 
Did  he  not  recall  to  your  minds  the  image  of  him  whose 
meat  it  was  to  do  his  Father's  will  ?  You  remember  his 
Christian  deportment,  his  purity  of  character,  his  sim- 
plicity of  purpose,  his  gentleness  of  manner,  the  up- 
rightness of  his  walk,  the  fidelity  of  his  labor.  He  had 
opened  his  heart  to  his  Saviour,  and  that  Saviour  had 
become  to  him  '  wisdom  and  righteousness,  and  sanctifi- 
cation  and  redemption.'  "  # 

His  deportment  was  always  such  as  seemed  in  harmo- 
ny with  the  highest  purposes  of  life.  Notwithstanding 
the  liveliness  of  his  fancy  and  the  readiness  of  his  wit, 
his  conversation  was  never  frivolous,  and  his  very  pres- 
ence rebuked  the  levity  of  others.  Nothing  was  more 
striking  than  the  fact,  that,  notwithstanding  the  fastidious- 
ness of  his  taste  and  the  delicacy  of  his  perceptions,  he 
never  was  known  to  complain  of  the  companionship  of 
the  frivolous,  the  tedious,  or  the  uninteresting.  His 
spirit  of  comprehensive  charity  and  love  made  itself  in- 
stantly recognized  by  those  who  were  the  objects  of  it. 
Every  thing  genuine  and  good  in  those  around  him  re- 
sponded to  the  touch  of  his  sympathy.  It  was  there- 
fore true  that  no  one  was  uninteresting  to  him,  because 
in  every  one  there  are  elements  which  are  only  waiting 
to  be  developed  by  the  presence  of  sympathy,  and  when 
in  communication  with  him,  what  was  wisest  and  best 
would  be  called  into  action. 

*  Dr.  Gannett's  Funeral  Discourse,  p.  21. 


MEMOIR.  CXV11 

This  view  of  human  beings  made  his  duties  as  a  par- 
ish minister  delightful  to  him.  He  always  spoke  of 
them  as  satisfactory,  and  after  the  bereavements  which 
overshadowed  his  home,  he  said  he  found  more  comfort 
in  going  about  among  his  people  than  in  any  other  em- 
ployment. We  find  in  his  diary  the  following  record  :  — 
"  December  12.  Began  to-day  to  write  the  Life  of 
Oglethorpe.  Pleasant,  if  I  had  time,  but  I  have  com- 
menced visiting  the  people  with  a  full  determination  to 
spend  at  least  every  afternoon  in  that  employment.     God 

make   me   faithful  ! How    much    good    may   be 

done  by  keeping  up  this  familiar  communication  !  "  And 
again  : —  "In  my  visits  this  afternoon,  I  was  told  by  a 
mother  that  her  little  child  had  prayed  for  me  ever  since 
my  affliction,  that  God  would  bless  and  comfort  me. 
God  bless  the  dear  child  !  " 

It  was,  however,  amidst  the  darkest  scenes  of  life 
that  the  power  of  his  presence  and  Christian  sympathy 
was  most  brightly  manifested.  In  the  chamber  of  pov- 
erty and  sickness  he  made  himself  felt  as  the  protecting 
and  sustaining  friend  ;  and  more  than  one  bereaved  and 
desolate  being  was  heard  to  exclaim,  when  he  was  taken 
away,  "  I  have  lost  my  best  earthly  friend  and  adviser." 
At  the  bedside  of  the  dying,  his  strong  faith  fitted  him 
to  speak  with  a  power  which  was  rarely  equalled. 
Those  who  have  listened  to  his  voice  at  such  a  season 
have  felt  the  power  of  faith  to  lay  hold  on  eternal  life  ; 
and  while  he  cheered  and  strengthened  the  departing 
spirit,  he  consoled  those  who  were  sorrowing  round  the 
dying  bed,  and  often  preached  more  powerfully  there 
than  he  could  have  done  from  the  pulpit,  through  years 
of  unbroken  prosperity  and  peace.  His  faithfulness  as  a 
k 


CXV111  MEMOIR. 

pastor  was  often  remembered  with  gratitude  by  those 
who  were  leaving  this  world,  and  among  the  most  pre- 
cious rewards  of  his  ministry  were  these  testimonies 
which  came  to  him  from  lips  so  soon  to  be  sealed  in 
death. 

His  faith  was  indeed  like  "  the  open  vision."  He 
expresses  it  most  strongly,  as  we  have  seen,  in  the  dis- 
courses and  the  letters  written  immediately  after  his 
great  bereavements  ;  and  then  how  beautifully  he  turned 
back  to  earth  and  discharged  its  humblest  duties  !  Like 
the  monk,  in  that  touching  legend  with  which  we  are  all 
familiar,  who  lingered  not  in  his  cell  to  enjoy  the  vision 
of  the  Saviour,  when  the  hour  arrived  in  which  it  was 
his  duty  to  feed  the  poor  at  the  gate  of  the  convent. 
On  his  return  he  found  the  blessed  vision  still  waiting 
for  him,  and  uttering  these  words,  —  "Hadst  thou  staid, 
I  must  have  fled." 

We  cannot  cease  to  speak  of  him  without  observing 
that  the  predominant  impression  which  his  character, 
especially  in  his  last  years,  left  upon  the  mind,  was  that 
of  the  supremacy  of  duty.  He  had  the  martyr  spirit, 
and  could  have  endured  to  the  end  had  the  martyr's 
fate  been  his.  His  was  the  unconquerable  will  ;  all 
things  were  possible  to  him  through  Christ  strengthening 
him.  Hence  his  resolute  purpose  to  let  nothing  lead 
him  aside  from  the  great  object  of  this  life,  which,  as 
he  always  loved  to  state  it,  was  "  the  formation  of  char- 
acter in  preparation  for  life  eternal." 


NOTICES 


REV.    OLIVER    W.    B.    PEABODY. 


We  feel  that,  after  closing  the  life  of  this  true  minis- 
ter of  Christ,  our  sacred  work  is  not  completed  unless 
we  endeavour  to  combine  with  our  recollections  of  him 
a  sketch  of  that  brother  with  whom  through  life  he  was 
so  intimately  associated  in  the  minds  of  their  friends  and 
of  the  public.  The  first  pages  of  this  Memoir  might 
almost  be  regarded  as  an  autobiography,  so  much  did 
the  brothers,  in  their  early  days,  resemble  each  other, 
not  only  in  taste  and  character,  but  in  the  outward 
course  of  their  lives.  They  had  the  same  humility  and 
self-distrust,  united  with  dignity  and  independence  ;  the 
same  uprightness  of  principle  and  firmness  of  purpose, 
blended  with  a  gentle  deference  for  the  feelings  and 
claims  of  others,  which  in  youth  seem  so  lovely,  and 
which  in  maturer  life  lead  to  such  efficient  and  benev- 
olent action.  They  had  the  same  exquisite  humor  and 
wit,  combined  with  a  tenderness  and  discretion  which 
are  rarely  found  in  youth  ;  —  the  same  uncompromising 
devotion  to  duty  and  to  the  highest  standard  of  right, 
united  with  the  most  gentle  and   generous  judgments  of 


CXX  NOTICES    OF    THE 

others.  They  were  alike  reserved  in  manner,  and  of 
course  were  fully  known  only  to  their  more  intimate 
friends  ;  and  yet  few  persons  probably  ever  gave  a  more 
true  impression  of  themselves  than  they  did  by  the  sim- 
ple force  of  a  character,  which,  by  its  freedom  from 
pretension,  disarmed  criticism,  and  by  its  benignity,  pu- 
rity, and  excellence,  secured  the  confidence  and  respect 
of  all. 

We  copy  from  the  Christian  Examiner*  some  details 
respecting  the  subject  of  this  notice,  together  with  an 
eloquent  tribute  to  his  virtues,  feeling  that  we  can  offer 
nothing  which  will  do  equal  justice  to  his  rrlemory. 

"  Oliver  William  Bourne  Peabody  was  born 
at  Exeter,  N.  H.,  on  the  9th  of  July,  1799.  He  was 
twin  brother  of  the  late  Rev.  William  Bourne  Oliver 
Peabody,  and,  like  him,  bore  the  names  of  his  father, 
the  late  Judge  Peabody,  and  of  his  mother's  father, 
Hon.  William  Bourne.  The  brothers  grew  up  togeth- 
er, together  were  educated  by  Dr.  Abbot  in  the  acad- 
emy of  their  native  town,  and  together  entered  Harvard 
College,  in  1813.  From  the  moment  of  their  birth  to 
that  of  their  separation,  the  last  year,  by  the  death  of 
Dr.  Peabody  of  Springfield,  they  were  bound  together 
by  the  closest  attachment,  and  by  a  striking  sympathy  in 
tastes,  which  was  marked  by  such  occasional  differences 
of  temperament  as  strengthened  and  gave  beauty  to  the 
union.  The  very  strong  personal  resemblance  between 
the  two,  which  all  their  friends  observed,  was  not  more 
remarkable  than  this    close   union   of   sympathies    and 


*  For  September,  1848.     The  article  is  understood  to  have  been 
written  by  the  Rev.  Edward  E.  Hale,  of  Worcester. 


REV.    OLIVER    W.    B.    PEABODY.  CXX1 

aims,  which  always  lasted  through  difference  of  pursuits 
and  of  homes,  and  to  which  we  now  look  back  as  if  it 
were  a  forewarning  to  us  that  in  death  they  would  not 
long  be  parted. 

"  The  brothers  entered  college  at  an  age  now  con- 
sidered early,  but  even  at  that  period  Mr..  Oliver  Pea- 
body  showed  traits  of  character  and  fancy  which  have 
since  been  familiar  to  his  friends.  '  He  was,'  in  the 
words  of  one  of  his  early  friends,  '  a  most  amiable, 
pleasant  young  man,  full  of  wit  and  most  irresistible  hu- 
mor, with  a  keen  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  and  the  power 
to  communicate  it  to  others.  He  had  a  love  and  talent 
for  music,  and  played  the  flute  and  sang  very  agreeably. 
He  was  also  fond  of  drawing,  and  sketched  with  great 
spirit  and  delicacy.  He  was  always  a  most  delightful 
companion,  his  conversation  most  agreeable,  enriched 
as  it  was  from  his  wide  reading,  from  which  he  always 
had  at  hand  the  most  apt  illustrations.' 

"  On  leaving  college,  Mr.  Peabody  studied  his  fa- 
ther's profession,  under  his  father's  direction,  at  Exeter.- 
He  spent  some  time,  also,  at  the  Law  School  in  Cam- 
bridge, before  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  New 
Hampshire.  He  then  began  the  practice  of  the  law  in 
his  native  town.  In  the  eleven  years  which  followed, 
he  was  not  confined  to  the  cares  of  his  profession  alone. 
He  was  a  member  of  the  State  legislature,  and  at  dif- 
ferent times  took  the  editorial  charge  of  the  Rocking- 
ham Gazette  and  the  Exeter  News-Letter.  In  the  files 
of  these  papers  are  articles  from  his  pen  sparkling  with 
vivacity  and  humor.  These,  and  other  essays  and  po- 
ems, which  he  published  then  and  afterwards  in  various 
journals,  are  distinguished  no  less  for  brilliancy  and 
k* 


CXX11  NOTICES    OF    THE 

freshness  of  thought  than  for  a  certain  polished  accuracy 
of  style,  the  result  of  his  patient  and  diligent  care. 
Always  nice  in  expression,  always  accurate  in  style,  he 
was  never  formal,  dull,  or  commonplace.  His  mind 
never  lost  that  eagerness  for  fresh  combinations,  and  for 
a  distinct,  unabused  point  of  view,  which  had  given  to 
him  his  early  humor  and  love  of  the  ludicrous.  This 
was  the  reason  that  he  wrote  so  little  in  comparison 
with  the  great  army  of  what  are  called  literary  men. 
But,  for  the  same  reason,  there  is  scarcely  any  thing 
which  he  has  written  that  is  not  worthy  of  publication, 
and  that  did  not  fully  answer  its  purpose,  whether  to 
rouse  a  laugh  as  coming  from  the  carrier  of  a  newspa- 
per, or  as  an  episode  in  political  controversy,  or  as  de- 
manding thought  and  study,  when  published  in  a  review 

-or  delivered  before  a  lyceum Many  of  our  readers 

•will  recollect  the  poem  which  he  delivered  at  Cambridge 
before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society,  in  1822.  When 
the  citizens  of  Portsmouth  celebrated  the  second  cen- 
tennial anniversary  of  that  town,  he  delivered  a  poem 
which  is  still  remembered  with  pleasure.  He  had  early 
shown  his  poetical  genius  and  facility  of  versification,  — 
talents  which  he  always  possessed,  though  he  used  them 
too  little.  He  and  his  brother  each  delivered  a  poem 
when  they  graduated  at  Cambridge,  and  there  are  sev- 
eral poems  among  the  published  papers  to  which  we 
have  alluded. 

"In  1830,  Mr.  Peabody  removed  to  Boston,  which 
was  his  home  for  most  of  the  remainder  of  his  life. 
His  brother-in-law,  Mr.  A.  H.  Everett,  was  then  the 
editor  of  the  North  American  Review,  and  Mr.  Pea- 
body  acted  as  a  constant  and  valuable  assistant  to  him  in 


REV.    OLIVER    W.    B.    PEABODY.  CXX111 

that  duty.  Till  near  the  close  of 'his  life  he  was  an 
occasional  contributor  to  that  journal,  and  for  some 
years  there  is  scarcely  a  volume  which  does  not  contain 
one  or  more  articles  from  him.  At  the  same  time,  for 
several  years,  he  was  an  assistant  editor  of  the  Boston 
Daily  Advertiser,  and  some  of  his  most  pointed  essays 
were  published  in  that  paper,  as  from  time  to  time  they 
were  called  forth  by  the  changing  aspects  of  political 
or  literary  affairs.  There  are  certain  duties  of  an  ed- 
itor's life  for  which  he  was  peculiarly  fitted.  His  very 
wide  general  information,  frequently  relating  to  subjects 
where  the  most  careful  books  of  reference  are  dumb, 
and  all  indexes  useless,  served  him  especially,  when 
called  upon,  as  the  editor  of  a  daily  journal  constantly 
is,  to  illustrate  unexpected  movements  and  explain  new 
events  on  the  shortest  notice. 

"  Mr.  Peabody  served  for  two  or  three  years  as  a 
member  of  the  Massachusetts  legislature.  In  the  year 
1836,  he  was  appointed  Register  of  Probate  in  Suffolk 
county.  He  filled  the  duties  of  this  office  until  1842. 
It  is  a  laborious  post,  requiring,  under  the  probate  ar- 
rangements of  this  State,  the  constant  personal  attention 
of  the  incumbent,  and  close  labor  from  him,  if  only  as 
a  copyist.  But  Mr.  Peabody  found  time  for  literary 
studies  and  occupations.  His  daily  exercise  was  made 
the  means  of  that  study  of  nature  which  he  always  loved. 
And,  while  both  faithful  and  popular  in  an  employment 
which  is  certainly  not  the  most  refreshing  or  invigorat- 
ing, he  was  still  to  his  friends,  and  to  any  whom  he 
could  serve,  as  full  of  spirit  and  life  as  he  had  ever 
been  when  engaged  in  more  exciting  daily  duties.  His 
health,  however,  always  delicate,  was  impaired  by  the 


CXX1V  NOTICES    OF    THE 

labors  of  the  office,  and  in  1842  he  resigned  it,  on  ac- 
cepting from  Jefferson  College,  an  institution  endowed 
and  supported  by  the  State  of  Louisiana,  an  appoint- 
ment as  Professor  of  English  Literature.  He  entered 
on  the  duties  of  this  post  in  the  autumn  of  that  year. 
But  the  climate  of  Louisiana  proved  unfavorable  to  his 
constitution,  and,  unwilling  to  contend  longer  with  the 
lassitude  which  it  induced,  he  resigned  his  professorship 
the  next  year,  and  returned  to  the  North. 

"  It  was  at  as  recent  a  period  as  this  that  he  entered 
directly  upon  the  sphere  of  life  which  commends  him 
especially  to  the  interest  of  the  readers  of  the  Exam- 
iner. For  many  years,  perhaps,  he  had  wished  to  en- 
gage in  the  Gospel  ministry.  From  his  early  days  he 
had  lived  under  high  and  pure  religious  influences,  the 
result  of  clear  and  well-sustained  religious  convictions  ; 
and  of  late  years  his  reading  had  more  and  more  taken 
that  turn  which  would  especially  prepare  him  for  the 
duties  of  a  Christian  minister.  On  returning  from  the 
South,  he  immediately  carried  out  his  intention  of  en- 
tering the  ministry,  and  continued  without  interruption 
the  studies  which,  with  that  view,  he  had  thus  begun. 
His  residence  at  this  time  was  sometimes  in  Boston, 
and  sometimes  in  Springfield,  with  his  brother.  While 
in  Boston,  he  acted  as  the  Secretary  of  the  c  Emigrant 
Society,'  as  long  as  that  valuable  society  was  in  ex- 
istence. Its  object  was  to  communicate  true  informa- 
tion to  emigrants,  and  to  those  who  proposed  to  em- 
igrate, —  and  to  make  arrangements  for  their  reception 
here,  that  they  might  be  free  from  the  impositions  to 
which  their  condition  is  peculiarly  liable.  In  this  charge 
Mr.    Peabody  was  greatly  interested.      But  the   public 


REV.    OLIVER    W.    B.    PEABODY.  CXXV 

failed  to  support  the  society,  and  after  about  a  year  its 
action  ceased. 

"  In  the  summer  of  1844,  Mr.  Peabody  received 
from  the  Boston  Association  its  license  to  preach  ;  and 
in  August,  1845,  he  was  settled  as  the  pastor  of  the 
Unitarian  church  in  Burlington,  Vermont,  where  he 
had  preached  in  the  previous  spring  and  summer  ;  and 
in  that  beautiful  town  he  lived,  in  the  discharge  of  his 
ministry,  until  his  death.  His  health,  however,  be- 
came more  and  more  delicate  during  the  last  years  of 
his  life,  and,  after  a  short,  acute  illness,  he  died,  on 
the  5th  of  July  last,  four  days  before  closing  his  fiftieth 
year. 

"  The  ministry  had  been  the  profession  of  his  ma- 
ture choice.  He  knew  what  it  was,  or  what  it  might 
be,  for  he  had  seen  for  more  than  twenty  years  all  the 
detail  and  beautiful  completeness  of  his  brother's  min- 
istry in  Springfield.  He  knew  what  he  himself  should 
labor  to  do  in  it,  for  no  man  had  a  deeper  sympathy  for 
others,  or  a  more  devoted  reliance  upon  God.  With 
more  and  more  interest,  therefore,  as  his  life  passed  on 
in  other  labors,  did  he  contemplate  this  field  of  action. 
And  therefore,  when  he  entered  on  his  duty  at  Bur- 
lington, it  was  to  test  hopes  which  he  had  long  enter- 
tained, to  try  plans  which  were  of  old  familiar  to  him. 
To  himself  it  was  a  very  happy  epoch.  It  opened  to 
him  the  whole  of  a  field  of  labor  in  which  he  had 
already  gleaned  more  than  many  professed  reapers  who 
had  less  fervency  and  zeal  than  he.  The  relief  of  the 
poor,  the  comfort  of  the  sorrowing,  the  raising  of  soci- 
ety, were  no  new  efforts  to  him  ;  and  the  duties  of  a 
Christian  minister  only  united  in  a  specific  form  hopes, 


CXXV1  NOTICES    OF    THE 

labors,  and  exertions,  to  which,  in  whatever  occupa- 
tion, he  had  always  devoted  his  life.  His  entrance 
upon  those  duties,  then,  could  not  but  be  a  happy  event 
to  himself.  It  was  peculiarly  a  pleasure  to  his  friends, 
who  felt  that  he  was  now  exactly  where  he  ought  to  be. 
You  could  not  see  him  without  feeling  that  he  was  too 
refined,  too  delicate,  too  tender,  to  bear  much  of  the 
rough  intercourse  of  the  world.  You  could  not  know 
him  without  thinking,  that,  in  whatever  calling,  he  was 
one  standing  between  God  and  his  children,  —  between 
Jesus  and  his  disciples.  He  himself  would  never  have 
disowned  any  activity  or  rigid  monotony  of  labor.  In 
the  hard  routine  of  official  life,  he  had  no  complaint  to 
make  of  his  position.  But  his  friends,  for  him,  could, 
and  did,  rejoice  that  he  should  be  transferred  to  another 
scene  and  sort  of  effort. 

"  And  in  his  ministry,  their  presages  were  all  made 
real,  and  his  own  satisfaction  was  never  dimmed  for  a 
moment.  An  affectionate  people  became  more  and  more 
attached  to  him,  until  the  moment  of  his  death,  which 
separated  him  from  no  formal  relationship,  but  from  con- 
nection with  a  company  of  Christian  friends  most  near 
and  most  dear.  Whoever  listened  to  his  fervent,  and 
eloquent,  and  tender  exhortations  from  the  pulpit,  or 
joined  in  his  affectionate,  devout,  and  appropriate  pray- 
ers, thanked  God  that  such  a  precious  servant  was  min- 
istering at  his  altar.  And  his  own  people,  who  knew 
him,  day  by  day,  and  year  by  year,  in  the  ebbs  and 
flows  of  his  delicate  health  ;  who  saw  him,  day  by  day, 
in  his  enthusiastic  discharge  of  the  home  duties  of  his 
parish  ;  who  followed  him  in  the  zeal  and  poetical  ardor 
with  which  he  traced  out  God  in  the  beautiful  scenery 


REV.    OLIVER    W.    B.    PEABODY.  CXXV11 

which  surrounded  them,  —  in  its  prospects,  its  vegeta- 
tion, its  exquisite  changes  of  summer  and  winter  ;  they 
who  knew  him  as  his  friends  knew  him  —  and  his  friends 
only  —  were  bound  to  him  every  day  by  a  closer  and 
closer  tie,  and  every  day  must  have  come  with  him 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  God  whom  he  loved  while  he 
worshipped.  The  gentle  fearlessness  with  which  he 
passed  from  the  world  to  heaven  will  always  linger  in 
their  memory.  And,  now  that  he  has  gone,  they  will 
enjoy  more  and  more  with  every  day  that  gift  which 
death  is  forced  to  leave,  as  one  compensation  for  a  part- 
ing, —  that  nice  perception  of  excellence,  which,  in  the 
hour  of  grief,  springs  up  from  the  clear  memories  of  a 
whole  life,  far  more  definite,  far  more  complete,  than 
can  be  the  ever-changing  sentiment  with  which  we  regard 
a  present,  living  friend. 

"  To  give  an  idea  of  such  a  man,  the  set  facts  of  a 
biography  are  powerless.  The  dates  and  other  details 
which  we  have  been  repeating  do  not  mark  eras  in  Mr. 

Peabody's  character Before  his  entrance  on  the 

ministry,  as  afterwards,  he  was  a  man  of  broad,  generous 
culture,  of  the  kindest  heart,  of  the  most  active  gener- 
osity, and  of  a  living,  fervent,  devoted  soul.  Before, 
as  well  as  afterwards,  he  trained  himself  by  a  diligent 
intellectual  culture,  which  was  doubtless  seconded  by  a 
high,  secret,  spiritual  effort  ;  so  that  his  education  was 
never  over,  —  so  that  his  life  was  always  fresh,  and  he 
always  young.  And  as  his  friends  look  back  upon  him 
to-day,  it  is  to  look  back  upon  one  whom  they  never 
saw  without  being  glad  that  they  saw  him,  whom  they 
never  parted  from  without  making  him  promise  soon  to 
meet  again  ;  one  from  whom,  whenever  they  met,  they 


CXXV111  NOTICES    OF    THE 

received  some  gift  of  fancy,  of  learning,  or  of  love, 
which  they  always  prized,  and  by  which  they  always  re- 
membered him,  and  to  whom,  when  they  separated, 
they  looked  back  with  new  admiration  and  love. 

"  Such  reasons  have  his  friends  for  remembering  him 
and  mourning  for  his  loss.  But  by  the  public  he  is  re- 
membered rather  for  his  gifts  of  intellect,  and  as  a  liter- 
ary man.  In  all  his  different  occupations,  he  retained, 
as  we  have  said,  the  studies  and  tastes  with  which  in  his 
earlier  life  he  had  followed  literary  pursuits,  and  by 
which  he  gained  the  ease  and  power  of  usefulness  which, 
as  a  man  of  letters,  he  always  had.  He  Was  interested 
in  foreign  literature,  but  was  most  attracted  by  the  clas- 
sical literature  of  England.  In  this  he  was  thoroughly 
versed.  His  lectures  upon  it  were  lively  and  interest- 
ing, and  by  his  study  of  it  he  illustrated  his  writings  and 
his  conversation.  But  as  a  literary  man  he  deserves  this 
as  his  highest  praise,  that,  even  in  the  goading  haste  of 
an  editor's  duty,  he  never  wrote  carelessly,  or  without 
something  to  say,  —  that,  while  he  read  more  than  most 
men  of  letters,  he  wrote  much  less,  —  and  that  he  never 
prostituted  his  reading  to  the  purpose  of  mere  indolent 
amusement,  glancing  here  and  there  at  the  reflections  of 
the  shadows  of  what  were  once  great  ideas.  Passing 
hastily  over  the  ephemeral  reviews  and  restatements 
which  shallow  flippancy  digests  from  the  original  effort 
of  great  minds,  he  recurred  for  himself  to  the  authors 
who  were  worth  study  ;  coped  with  them,  whether  dull 
or  quaint  or  obscure,  with  his  own  resources  ;  for  him- 
self found  out  their  meaning,  and  with  his  own  thought 
and  labor  arranged  it  for  the  world.  He  never  published 
any  thing  but  the  miscellaneous  papers  to  which  we  have 


REV.    OLIVER    W.    B.    PEABODY.  CXX1X 

already  alluded,  and  such  reports  and  other  papers  as  he 
drew  up  in  the  course  of  his  public  duties.  At  the 
time  of  his  death,  however,  he  had  been  occupied  in 
preparing  a  memoir  of  his  brother,  and  this  book  he  left 
nearly  ready  for  publication. 

"  What  we  have  said  of  Mr.  Peabody  is  eulogy,  and 
is  meant  to  be.  It  is  eulogy  coming  from  those  who 
knew  him  too  intimately  to  analyze  his  character,  or 
even  to  undertake  now  to  write  his  biography,  without 
the  presence  of  fresh  regrets.  It  is  the  eulogy,  how- 
ever, of  a  spiritual  man  ;  of  one  in  whom  the  true  spirit 
always  held  ascendency  over  mere  intellect,  as  over  the 
body  ;  who  was  less  and  less  bound  to  the  earth,  the 
longer  he  lived  upon  it.  Such  a  man  does  not  often 
attract  around  him  a  large  circle  of  friends,  and  in  Mr. 
Peabody  there  was  a  shrinking  from  observation,  a  del- 
icate distrust,  that  perhaps  separated  him  from  the  wide 
or  general  intimacy  which  a  bolder  man  of  his  genius 
would  have  sought  and  gained.  But  those  who  knew 
him  intimately  and  well  remember  him  as  one  whom 
it  was  a  privilege  to  know,  and  whom  it  is  a  privilege  to 
remember." 

It  is  indeed  difficult  to  analyze  the  character  of  this 
devoted  Christian  and  minister,  without  using  language 
which  would  sound  like  extravagant  eulogy  to  those  who 
knew  him  not  ;  for  the  more  nearly  we  approached  him, 
and  looked  upon  the  "  daily  beauty  of  his  life,"  the 
more  did  it  seem  to  us  that  he  was  one  "  of  whom  the 
world  was  not  worthy."  He  passed  through  life  with- 
out ever  having  in  view  the  objects  for  which  most  men 
live.  His  own  comfort,  interest,  reputation,  were  al- 
l 


CXXX  NOTICES    OF    THE 

ways  secondary,  and  any  service  that  he  could  render  to 
another  was  more  attractive  than  the  pursuit  of  any  ob- 
ject which  could  only  benefit  himself. 

Manifesting  this  spirit,  as  he  did,  in  every  situation  in 
life,  it  seemed  peculiarly  a  blessing  to  himself  and  to 
others,  when  he  entered  that  profession  where  such  self- 
forgetting  devotion  can  be  most  happily  and  beneficent- 
ly exerted.  Nor  were  his  own  hopes  and  those  of  his 
friends  disappointed.  He  found  in  his  new  course  of 
duties  more  happiness  than  he  had  ever  dared  to  im- 
agine, and  in  his  "  short,  but  precious,  ministry,"  he 
accomplished  more  than  even  his  friends  had  anticipated 
for  him.  He  often  spoke  of  the  delight  that  he  found 
in  the  most  common  duties  of  his  life  as  a  parish  minis- 
ter, and  he  said  that  he  never  returned  from  visiting 
among  his  people  without  feeling  his  heart  lightened  and 
his  best  hopes  and  purposes  animated  and  strengthened. 

His  unremitted  labors  in  his  distant  and  isolated  field 
of  duty  soon  began  to  wear  upon  his  strength,  and  in  the 
year  1846  his  health  visibly  declined.  At  the  com- 
mencement of  the  next  year,  he  said  to  a  friend  that  he 
felt  a  deep  conviction  that  he  should  not  live  to  see  its 
close ;  and  when,  in  the  course  of  a  few  months,  he  was 
summoned  to  the  death-bed  of  his  brother,  he  expressed 
surprise  that  he  should  still  be  left  ;  adding,  "  It  is  but 
for  a  little  while." 

It  was  touching  and  inspiring  to  see  how  this  convic- 
tion blended  with  all  his  thoughts  and  purposes  ;  never 
diminishing  his  cheerfulness,  and  only  adding  new  ener- 
gy to  the  feeling  of  self-devotion  with  which  he  returned 
to  his  labors.  At  this  time  he  was  urged  by  many  of  his 
friends  to  accept  the  proposition  which  had  been  made 


REV.     OLIVER    W.     B.     PEABODY.  CXXX1 

to  him  to  remove  to  Boston,  and  assume  the  editorial 
charge  of  the  Christian  Register.  In  many  respects  he 
was  eminently  fitted  for  this  work,  and  he  was  well 
aware  that  such  a  lightening  of  his  labors  would  have  a 
beneficial  effect  upon  his  health.  But  he  could  not  be 
induced  seriously  to  think  of  it.  He  felt  that  in  leaving 
Burlington  he  should  leave  a  scene  of  usefulness  which 
he  could  not  hope  to  find  elsewhere.  It  was,  too,  the 
home  of  his  choice,  the  spot  in  which  he  loved  to  labor, 
and  where  he  hoped  to  die. 

During  the  last  few  weeks  of  his  life,  he  was  engaged 
in  preparing  a  Memoir  of  his  brother,  which  the  friends 
of  both  were  most  anxious  to  have  completed  by  him. 
But  while  it  was  in  progress,  he  was  arrested  by  the  ill- 
ness which  so  suddenly  terminated  his  life.  During  the 
spring,  although  feeble,  he  had  appeared  in  nearly  his 
usual  health,  and  in  more  than  his  usual  spirits,  and  had 
repeatedly  observed  that  he  never  enjoyed  so  much  the 
beauty  of  the  opening  summer.  In  the  latter  part  of 
June  he  took  a  violent  cold  from  exposure  to  the  rain, 
but  he  still  continued  his  daily  visits  among  his  people 
until  Saturday,  June  24th.  On  the  next  day,  contrary 
to  the  advice  of  his  friends,  he  attempted  to  preach, 
but,  in  consequence  of  complete  exhaustion,  he  was 
obliged  to  omit  the  afternoon  service.  On  Sunday 
evening  he  sent  for  a  physician,  and  never  again  left  the 
house.  His  disease,  which  assumed  the  form  of  dysen- 
tery, prostrated  him  immediately,  although  there  ap- 
peared no  symptoms  which  were  particularly  alarming. 
Throughout  the  week  he  was  under  the  influence  of 
opiates,  and  was  disposed  to  converse  but  little.  On 
Sunday  morning,  however,  he  requested  a  friend  who  was 


CXXX11  NOTICES    OF    THE 

sitting  by  him  to  read  aloud  to  him  the  fourteenth  chapter 
of  John  ;  and  after  a  little  sleep,  he  roused  himself  to 
make  some  inquiries  with  regard  to  the  service  at 
church.  On  Tuesday  he  dictated  a  telegraphic  despatch 
to  his  sister  in  Boston,  requesting  her  to  come  to  him. 
He  then  again  asked  to  have  portions  of  St.  John's 
Gospel  read  to  him,  after  which  he  expressed  a  desire 
for  quiet  and  for  sleep.  After  waking,  his  mind  ap- 
peared clear,  and  all  his  symptoms  more  favorable.  He 
enjoyed  the  flowers  which  were  offered  to  him,  and 
manifested  pleasure  in  having  his  friends  converse  to- 
gether in  his  room.  Early  in  the  morning  of  Wednes- 
day, July  5,  a  great  change  was  visible  in  his  appear- 
ance, and  a  friend  who  was  watching  with  him  commu- 
nicated to  him  his  impression  of  his  danger.  He  said 
that  he  had  much  to  do  which  he  had  hoped  to  finish, 
and  afterward  expressed  the  conviction  that  his  friends 
were  unreasonably  anxious  about  him  ;  often  repeating, 
that  he  felt  perfectly  comfortable  and  free  from  pain. 
Towards  noon  he  evidently  drew  near  the  end  ;  and  his 
physician  told  him  that  he  thought  him  dying.  He  said 
that  he  hoped  it  was  an  error  ;  but  added,  "  Living  or 
dying,  I  am  in  the  hands  of  God."  After  which  his  lips 
moved  as  if  in  prayer,  and  his  whole  soul  seemed  absorb- 
ed in  communion  with  Heaven.  He  continued  to  breathe 
but  a  short  time,  and  so  he  peacefully  "  passed  on." 

The  following  letter  was  addressed  to  the  editor  of 
the  New  York  Inquirer,  by  a  friend  and  parishioner  of 
Mr.  Peabody.  It  is  a  heartfelt  and  beautiful  tribute  to 
the  value  of  his  life  and  ministry.  And  we  feel  sure 
that  every  one  will  read  it  with  interest. 


REV.    OLIVER    W.    B.    PEABODY.  CXXX111 

"  You  will  probably  have  heard,  ere  this  reaches  you, 
of  the  sudden  and  lamented  death  of  the  Rev.  Oliver  W. 
B.  Peabody,  pastor  of  the  Unitarian  Church  in  this 
town.  That  sad  event  occurred  on  Wednesday,  the  5th 
instant,  and  plunged,  not  merely  the  society  to  which  he 
ministered,  but  the  whole  community,  into  the  profound- 
est  sorrow.  It  has  been  apparent  to  most  of  us,  since 
the  death  of  his  twin  brother,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Peabody 
of  Springfield,  a  little  more  than  a  year  ago,  that  our 
beloved  pastor  was  wounded  by  the  blow  too  deeply  for 
recovery,  and  that  he  could  not  long  be  spared  to  lead 
us  in  the  way  of  life.  Possessed  of  a  self-forgetting  de- 
votion to  duty,  which  forbade  him  to  yield  to  his  feelings 
to  the  injury  of  his  usefulness,  he  has  labored  on  for 
months  against  our  earnest  remonstrances,  when  he  must 
have  felt  as  we  did,  that  he  was  truly  wearing  himself 
out  in  his  Master's  service.  The  last  time  he  preached, 
which  was  on  the  next  Sabbath  but  one  preceding  his 
death,  he  was  unable  to  go  through  with  the  afternoon 
service,  and  gave  notice  of  the  fact  at  the  conclusion  of 
the  morning  exercises.  This  was  to  be  the  end  of  his 
short,  but  precious,  ministry.  He  left  the  pulpit  with 
feeble  and  trembling  step,  and  on  the  next  day  was 
seized  with  the  malady  which  terminated  his  life  on  the 
Wednesday  of  the  week  following. 

"  It  is  impossible  to  convey  to  the  mind  of  one  re- 
moved from  the  scene  of  this  good  man's  labors  any 
adequate  idea  of  the  universal  affection  and  veneration 
with  which,  in  a  short  ministry  of  three  years,  he  has 
inspired  this  large  community.  All  sectarian  divisions 
have  yielded  to  the  spontaneous  homage  of  the  heart, 
extorted  by  his  unpretending  but  active  excellence.  He 
I* 


CXXX1V  NOTICES    OF    THE 

has  done  more  by  his  walk  and  conversation  to  shadow 
forth  the  beauty  of  holiness,  than  many  sermons  could 
have  effected.  His  life  was  a  most  eloquent  sermon,  of 
which  his  weekly  discourses,  though  filled  with  beauty, 
tenderness,  and  power,  seemed  but  the  least  important 
part.  Wherever  the  heart  of  humanity  was  bowed  with 
the  weight  of  sorrow,  or  pinched  by  the  hard  hand  of 
penury  and  want,  there  most  of  all  he  loved  to  go  and 
to  be  an  angel  of  succor  and  consolation.  Every  abode 
of  wretchedness  within  our  limits  can  bear  witness  of 
his  wise  counsels,  his  tender  consolations,  his  unstinted 
generosity.  Amid  the  rigors  of  our  bitterest  winters, 
with  a  frame  attenuated  and  enfeebled  by  disease,  he 
never  found  an  excuse  for  ceasing  from  his  pursuit  of 
the  children  of  woe. 

.  "  A  large  number  of  emigrants  have  been  thrown 
among  us  since  the  famine  in  Ireland,  and  have  been  the 
subjects  of  much  suffering  and  distress.  To  them  he 
has  been  a  friend  indeed.  Day  after  day,  unshrinking 
amid  the  most  malignant  diseases,  he  moved  among 
them  to  cheer  and  to  relieve.  To  the  poor,  indeed,  his 
loss  will  be  irreparable.  One  day  last  winter,  while  out 
upon  an  errand  of  mercy  with  another  clergyman  of  our 
village,  he  found  occasion  to  dispense  his  charity  freely 
to  an  object  of  uncommon  suffering,  when  his  associate 
said  to  him,  '  I  cannot  do  as  you  are  doing  ;  my  family 
has  claims  upon  me  which  I  cannot  disregard.'  '  I 
know  that  very  well,'  replied  Mr.  Peabody  ;  '  but 
these  are  my  FAMILY,'  pointing  to  those  whom  his 
bounty  was  relieving.  His  bounty,  like  his  Christian 
charity,  knew  no  bounds  of  sects  or  creeds,  but  distilled, 
like  the  blessed  dews  of  heaven,  on  all  alike.     He  had 


REV.    OLIVER    W.    B.    PEABODY.  CXXXV 

the  same  indescribable  smile  of  tenderness,  which  will 
form  the  sweetest  and  most  enduring  feature  associated 
with  his  memory  in  the  hearts  of  those  who  knew  him, 
for  all  whom  he  met.  Rich  and  poor,  young  and  old, 
alike  were  sure  to  meet  with  sunshine  in  that  beaming 
and  expressive  face.  It  was  beautiful  to  see  how  the 
children  loved  him.  If  one  of  them  was  unfortunate, 
or  less  favored  than  the  rest,'  he  was  sure  to  strive, 
with  winning  gentleness  and  delicate  generosity,  to  re- 
move the  inequality.  While  the  happy  and  prosperous 
shared  his  regard,  it  seemed  as  if  his  heart  gushed  out 
toward  the  children  of  sorrow,  whatever  the  cause  or 
form  of  their  afflictions.  In  all  these  ministries  of  love, 
he  was  himself  the  unfailing  bearer  of  his  own  bounty 
and  consolation.  Scarce  any  debility  was  sufficient  to 
deter  him  from  the  most  protracted  and  laborious  walks 
over  our  widely  extended  village,  and  ofttimes,  on  re- 
turning from  them,  he  had  almost  as  much  need  of  care 
as  they  whom  he  had  cared  for.  He  seemed  to  toil  on 
as  if  he  had  no  time  to  lose  in  order  to  finish  the  work 
appointed  for  him  to  do,  and  often  remarked  that  it 
seemed  better  for  him  to  wear  out  than  to  rust  out. 
Thus  he  pressed  ever  onward  in  the  path  of  duty,  be- 
coming each  day  more  and  more  detached  from  the 
world,  in  which  he  lived  but  for  others,  and  nearer  and 
nearer  to  that  realm  whither  most  of  those  to  whom  he 
was  bound  by  ties  of  kindred  had  preceded  him,  until 
he  seemed  at  last  to  live  rather  in  heaven  than  upon 
earth,  and  only  waited  the  welcome  summons  which 
should  call  him  to  his  rest  and  his  reward. 

"  That  summons  has  at  length  come.     Full  of  bitter 
affliction  as  it  was  to  us-,  we  cannot  find  it  in  our  hearts 


CXXXV1  NOTICES    OF    THE 

to  lament  for  him.  The  weariness  of  the  strife  against 
debility  and  disease  has  given  place  to  the  '  fulness  of 
joy.'  The  gentle  voice,  the  winning  smile,  the  slender 
form  and  feeble  step,  are  with  us,  indeed,  no  more  ;  but 
their  memory  will  remain  to  cheer  and  animate  us  to  the 
latest  hour  of  life. 

"  The  sense  of  bereavement  seems  to  be  universal. 
It  has  been  a  common  remark  since  his  death,  as  indeed 
before,  that  he  seemed  to  be  the  best  living  impersona- 
tion of  Christian  excellence  ever  known  among  us  ;  and 
to  those  who  knew  him,  this  will  seem  no  extravagant 
praise. 

"  His  disease  was  not  regarded  as  alarming  until  a 
few  hours  before  his  death,  though  many  of  us  feared, 
when  he  was  confined,  that  he  would  never  preach  again. 

-"  The  funeral  took  place  on  Friday  afternoon,  at  the 
church  where  he  had  so  faithfully  and  acceptably  min- 
istered. The  services  were  conducted  by  the  Rev.  John 
Cordner,  of  Montreal,  and  the  Rev.  John  Pierpont,  of 
Troy.  Mr.  Pierpont  made  an  impressive  address,  en- 
tirely extemporaneous,  but  full  of  touching  allusions  to 
the  character  of  the  diseased,  and  of  improving  reflec- 
tions on  the  blessed  uses  of  the  death  of  the  righteous. 
The  large  church  was  hung  in  black,  and  filled  with  a 
sad  and  silent  assemblage  of  our  citizens,  who  came  to 
pay  a  parting  tribute  to  a  good  man's  memory.  The 
address  was  just  drawing  to  a  conclusion,  when  a  stage- 
coach stopped  at  the  door  of  the  church,  and  the  sister 
of  the  dead,  the  widow  of  the  Hon.  Alexander  H.  Ev- 
erett, late  Commissioner  to  China,  who  had  been  sent 
for  a  few  days  before,  and  whose  arrival  was  anxiously 
expected  up  to  the  very  hour  of  the  funeral,  came  to 


REV.    OLIVER    W.    B.    PEABODY.  CXXXV11 

take  her  last  look  at  the  face  of  her  brother,  in  the 
midst  of  the  people  to  whom  he  had  ministered,  and 
who  were  now  assembled  to  pay  the  last  tribute  of  af- 
fection and  regard  to  his  remains.  The  scene  was  such 
as  few  will  ever  witness  again.  The  tears  of  the  be- 
reaved sister,  as  she  gave  one  look  at  the  calm  face  of 
the  unconscious  dead,  whom  she  had  not  seen  for  years, 
and  would  never  see  again  in  this  world,  fell  not  alone. 
For  several  minutes  the  sobs  throughout  the  house,  the 
tears  that  fell  from  '  eyes  unused  to  weep,'  attested  the 
intensity  of  that  sympathy  which  every  heart  spontane- 
ously offered  to  one  so  sorely  tried. 

"  After  the  coffin  was  deposited  in  the  grave,  the 
children  of  the  Sunday  School  gathered  around  it,  and 
flung  each  a  bouquet  of  flowers  as  an  offering  to  their 
beloved  pastor  and  friend.  '  Here,'  said  Mr.  Pierpont, 
*  are  the  three  most  beautiful  things  in  the  world,  — 
flowers,  the  most  beautiful  things  in  the  vegetable  world, 
brought  by  children,  the  most  beautiful  objects  in  an- 
imal nature,  as  an  offering  to  the  most  beautiful  thing  in 
the  spiritual  world,  the  memory  of  a  pure,  and  good, 
and  holy  man.' 

"  On  Sunday,  Mr.  Pierpont  preached  a  most  appro- 
priate discourse  from  2  Timothy  iv.  6  —  8,  to  a  large 
and  attentive  audience." 

On  Sunday,  July  16th,  Rev.  Dr.  Parkman  preached 
an  appropriate  sermon  in  the  church  where  Mr.  Pea- 
body  had  ministered.  We  copy  the  following  extract, 
which  was  published  in  the  Christian  Register  soon  after 
the  delivery  of  the  discourse.  The  text  was  taken  from 
Job  xiv.  19,  and  from  the  First  Epistle  of  Peter,  i.  3:  — 


CXXXV111  NOTICES    OF    THE 

"  Thou  destroyest  the  hope  of  man."  But,  "Bless- 
ed be  the  God  and  Father  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ, 
who,  according  to  his  abundant  mercy,  has  begotten  us 
again  to  a  lively  hope  of  an  inheritance  incorruptible, 
undefiled,  and  that  fadeth  not  away." 

"  You  need,  my  Christian  brethren,  amidst  the  dis- 
appointment of  your  cherished  earthly  hope,  the  strength 
and  solace  which  can  come  alone  from  faith  in  God,  and 
from  the  hope  that  is  full  of  immortality.  It  has  pleased 
Him,  who  '  doeth  all  things  well,'  the  Sovereign  Dis- 
poser of  life  and  death,  to  appoint  to  you  the  bitterness 
of  bereavement.  You  mourn  with  this  day  the  depart- 
ure of  him  on  whom  your  hearts  reposed.  Those  of  us 
who  have  been  favored  by  the  privilege  of  his  friendship, 
who  observed  in  other  and  various  scenes  his  rich  en- 
dowments, his  well-ordered  mind,  his  generous  affec- 
tions, his  fidelity  to  duty,  and  his  blameless  life,  can 
well  mingle  our  sympathies  and  prayers  with  yours  in 
this  night  of  your  sorrow.  Some  of  us  were  witnesses, 
in  his  earlier  years,  of  the  ability,  faithfulness,  and  con- 
siderate care  with  which  he  discharged  an  honorable 
trust,  before  he  entered  upon  that  which  your  expe- 
rience of  his  gifts  has  shown  to  have  been  his  appropri- 
ate calling,  and  which,  I  believe,  had  ever  been  the  first 
choice  of  his  heart.  There  was  much  in  his  fulfilment 
of  that  relation  that  was  congenial  with  the  kindness  of 
his  spirit  ;  and  many  a  widow  and  orphan,  who  amidst 
the  tenderness  of  recent  bereavement  were  the  objects 
of  his  official  service,  cherish  gratefully  his  memory,  as 
of  a  compassionate  friend.  You,  my  brethren  of  this 
flock,  have  witnessed  here,  in  this  fair  and  beautiful 
scene  of  his  labors,  how  he  '  walked  so  as  to  please 


REV.    OLIVER    W.    B.    PEABODY.  CXXX1X 

God  '  ;  with  what  serenity  and  gentleness,  with  what 
modest  dignity  and  meekness  of  wisdom,  with  what 
guileless  simplicity  and  disinterested  charity,  that  sought 
not,  however  justly  it  was  meriting,  the  praises  of  men, 
he  made  proof  of  his  ministry  among  you.  The  young 
of  the  flock  he  led  as  a  good  shepherd  by  the  side  of 
still  waters,  and  guided  with  the  skilfulness  of  his  hands. 
Even  the  least  of  the  little  ones  were  encouraged  by  the 
tenderness  of  his  instructions  ;  and  it  was  seen,  as  I 
have  learned,  what  a  place  he  had  gained  in  their  hearts, 
as  with  weeping  eyes  they  strewed  the  flowers  which  he 
loved,  and  had  taught  them  also  to  love  as  '  the  smiles 
of  God's  goodness/  upon  his  closing  grave.  The  sick 
and  the  desponding  were  soothed  by  his  gentle  consola- 
tions and  availing  prayers.  The  sinner  might  have  been 
won  to  goodness  by  his  example  ;  and  all  you,  my 
friends,  have  tasted  together  here  of  the  fruit  of  his 
lips,  have  been  admonished  by  his  faithful  counsels,  and 
have  seen  how  well  they  were  illustrated  in  his  holy 
life. 

"  Nor  was  it  within  the  circle  of  your  religious  society 
alone  that  his  good  influence  was  felt,  or  his  worth  ac- 
knowledged. God  has  given  to  virtue  a  power  that  can- 
not fail,  and  our  friend  possessed  in  no  common  meas- 
ure those  qualities  which  command  the  confidence  of 
mankind.  The  modesty  of  his  spirit  was  not  permitted 
to  check  the  activity  of  his  benevolence,  but  rendered  it 
only  the  more  attractive  from  the  delicacy  and  unobtru- 
siveness  with  which  his  bounty  was  conveyed.  His 
walks  of  usefulness  extended  far  beyond  the  limits  of 
his  flock.  In  his  charities,  dispensed  silently  as  the 
dew   of  heaven,   he   admitted   no    distinctions   that   did 


CXI  NOTICES    OF    THE 

not  embrace  the  suffering  of  every  name.  And,  were 
evidence  needed  of  the  respect  which  his  character  in- 
spired in  all  classes  of  this  community,  especially  of  the 
humblest,  it  would  be  found  in  the  earnestness  with 
which,  on  the  day  of  his  funeral,  they  came  up  to  this 
house  of  prayer,  which  was  to  them,  as  well  as  to  you, 
the  house  of  mourning,  and  in  the  touching  demonstra- 
tions of  their  grief  as  they  paid  their  tribute  to  his  hon- 
ored remains. 

"  It  was  your  earnest  hope,  that  one  so  honored  and 
beloved  should  be  spared  to  bless  you.  The  few  months 
or  years  in  which  you  were  favored  with-  his  ministry 
only  quickened  your  solicitude,  that  it  might  long  be 
continued  to  yourselves  and  to  your  children.  But  it  is 
not  the  pleasure  of  our  Heavenly  Father  that  the  high- 
est purposes  of  usefulness  should  be  here  accomplished. 
He  has  other  spheres  and  brighter  worlds  in  which  to 
employ  and  make  perfect  the  gifts  which  he  has  be- 
stowed ;  and  honorable  age  is  not  that  which  standeth 
in  length  of  days,  or  that  which  is  measured  by  the 
number  of  its  years  ;  but  wisdom  is  the  gray  hairs  of 
man,  and  an  unspotted  life  old  age.  Having  been  per- 
fected in  a  short  time,  he  hath  fulfilled  a  long  time. 
What  though  his  sun  has  gone  down  while  it  is  yet  noon- 
day ;  what  though  the  lips  that  spoke  sweetly  for  God 
and  virtue  are  silenced  in  death,  and  the  hands  that  were 
lifted  in  prayer  or  stretched  forth  in  charity  are  lifeless 
in  the  grave.  Even  so,  Father,  for  so  it  seemed  good 
in  thy  sight.  It  is  good  for  him,  for  he  has  ascended  to 
his  reward  ;  and  it  shall  be  good  for  us,  if  we  only  be 
faithful  to  his  memory  and  follow  in  his  steps.  Let  it 
please  Him  with  whom  are  the  souls  of  the  righteous,  — 


REV.    OLIVER    W.    B.    PEABOJDY.  Cxli 

who  can  make  bereavement  as  well  as  bounty,  death  as 
well  as  life,  the  ministry  of  his  love,  —  to  quicken  us  by 
his  spirit  in  the  work  he  has  given  us  to  do,  so  that, 
when  the  shadows  of  earth  shall  have  passed,  we  may 
be  gathered  with  the  pardoned  and  redeemed  in  the 
kingdom  of  our  Lord  and  Saviour  Jesus  Christ." 


m 


SERMONS. 


SERMON   I. 


EARNEST  DEVOTION. 

they  rest  not  day  and  night.  —  Revelation  iv.  8. 

Would  not  any  one  say  that  this  was  meant  as  a 
description  of  mankind  in  the  present  world  ?  Al- 
ways intent  on  some  favorite  object,  they  are  some- 
times lifted  to  the  skies  with  the  prospect  of  success, 
then  despairing  in  the  same  proportion  when  their 
hopes  are  overcast,  and  so  agitated  till  this  momen- 
tary object  passes  from  their  minds  and  gives  place 
to  another,  to  be  pursued  with  equal  devotion,  and 
then  cast  off  with  equal  disregard.  Even  if  mankind 
have  no  such  objects,  the  same  words  well  describe 
them ;  for  then  they  become  equally  restless  for  the 
want  of  some  object.  "  They  rest  not  day  and 
night,"  because  their  minds,  having  nothing  to  en- 
gage them,  prey  upon  themselves.  In  either  case, 
employed  or  not  employed,  men  are  like  the  troubled 
ocean,  always  heaving,  with  or  without  a  visible  cause, 
always  in  motion,  even  when  all  the  winds  are  still. 

But  however  descriptive  of  the  usual  state  of  this 
world  these  words  may  be,  such  was  not  their  pur- 
pose. They  were  not  said  in  reference  to  this  world, 
1 


EARNEST    DEVOTION. 


nor  to  any  thing  in  it.  The  beloved  disciple  in  his 
lonely  exile  had  his  mind  cheered  with  visions  of  the 
future  prosperity  of  the  church,  and  sometimes  was 
permitted  to  see  a  glimpse  of  heaven  through  the 
broken  clouds.  It  was  when  one  of  these  bright  but 
momentary  revelations  glanced  upon  his  view  that 
he  saw  the  eternal  throne  surrounded  by  its  rainbow, 
with  the  elders  in  white  robes  and  crowns  of  gold, 
and  the  mystic  cherubim,  before  it.  He  heard  the 
cherubim  saying,  "  Holy,  holy,  holy,  Lord  God  Al- 
mighty," and  the  elders  responding  in  the  heavenly 
anthem,  and  casting  their  crowns  before  the  throne. 
They  rested  not  day  and  night. 

While,  then,  these  words  were  spoken  in  reference 
to  what  the  Apostle  saw  in  another  world,  and  not 
in  this,  they  suggest  what  seems  to  be  an  indispen- 
sable condition  or  law  of  high  spiritual  attainment 
and  earnest  devotion. 

When  man  was  first  placed  upon  the  earth  and 
commanded  to  subdue  it,  how  helpless  he  seemed  to 
contend  with  the  elements  of  nature  !  Without  ex- 
perience, without  skill,  without  instruments,  with 
nothing  but  his  mind  and  his  frame,  it  must  have 
seemed  impossible  that  the  earth  should  ever  be  sub- 
dued by  him.  But  behold  what  he  has  done.  The 
desert  is  turned  into  a  garden ;  the  mountains  have 
given  way,  and  the  valleys  have  been  filled  up,  before 
him  ;  taking  the  winds  and  fires  for  his  ministers,  he 
has  rushed  fearlessly  across  the  depths  of  the  sea. 
Not  content  with  earthly  labors,  his  enterprising  sci- 
ence has  wheeled  in  triumph  through  the  skies,  ex- 


EARNEST    DEVOTION. 


ploring  the  balanced  clouds,  measuring  the  distance 
of  the  sun,  and  pursuing  the  star  that  wanders  to  the 
utmost  verge  of  heaven.  And  how  has  all  this  been 
accomplished  ?  How  has  man  been  able  to  do  these 
things  which  seemed  so  immeasurably  above  his 
reach  ?  It  is  because  he  has  not  rested  day  nor 
night.  It  is  because,  when  his  mind  once  became 
possessed  with  one  of  these  great  ideas,  he  has  given 
himself  no  repose  till  his  work  was  accomplished,  till 
he  has  known  all  that  patient  thought  could  discover, 
and  done  what  persevering  industry  was  able  to  do. 

In  the  Apostle's  vision  of  heaven,  he  is  struck  with 
the  glowing  devotion  of  the  spirits  before  the  throne. 
It  is  pure,  fervent,  and  exalted  ;  it  is  subject  to  no 
changes  of  rising  and  falling  emotions ;  it  is  always 
as  great  as  the  perfections  of  the  Infinite  require, 
and  as  the  nature  of  the  hearts  from  which  it  pro- 
ceeds permits  it  to  be.  Do  you  ask,  "  How  can  it  be 
sustained  at  such  a  height,  when  all  human  devotion 
is  so  easily  brought  down,  —  how  can  their  minds  be 
kept  fixed  on  the  object  of  their  adoration,  when  hu- 
man thoughts  so  readily  wander  away  ?  "  The  ex- 
planation is  found  in  the  words,  "  They  rest  not  day 
and  night  "  ;  their  hearts  are  always  engaged  in  the 
service  ;  the  night  suspends  it  not,  for  there  is  no 
night  there.  It  is  because  they  are  thus  devoted, — 
in  a  word,  it  is  because  they  rest  not, —  that  their  de- 
votion maintains  itself  so  fervent,  and  towers  so  high. 

This,  then,  illustrates  the  great  truth  which  ought 
to  be  impressed  on  every  heart  before  me  :  religious 
improvement,  the  chief  object  of  existence,  requires 


4  EARNEST    DEVOTION. 

the  steady  devotion  of  all  our  powers  to  secure  it. 
In  proportion  as  man  rests  from  that  labor  does  he 
surrender  the  hope  and  power  of  ever  securing  that 
prize.  In  proportion  as  he  resists  that  temptation 
does  he  advance  in  excellence  and  devotion,  and 
therefore  in  resemblance  to  the  seraphs  and  sons  of 
light  who  surround  the  heavenly  throne. 

Consider  the  effect  of  inaction  upon  the  physical 
nature.  The  frame  which  is  regularly  exercised,  if 
not  urged  beyond  its  strength,  grows  in  firmness  and 
energy,  and  expands  in  full  and  fair  proportion.  All 
the  currents  of  life  in  it  are  quick  and  glowing ;  the 
man  hardly  feels  that  he  has  a  body,  so  little  does  it 
encumber  the  free  action  of  the  soul.  But  let  the 
frame  be  given  over  to  rest,  let  the  man  have  no  steady 
employment  that  requires  interest  and  exertion,  and 
it  is  not  long  before  disease  begins  to  spread  through 
the  system,  sometimes  manifesting  itself  in  the  whole 
head  sick  and  whole  heart  faint,  or  treasuring  up  its 
hidden  wrath  against  the  day  when  it  shall  strike 
one  desperate  blow,  and  break  the  frame  with  hope- 
less infirmity,  or  crush  it  down  at  once  into  the 
grave. 

Consider  the  effect  of  inaction  upon  the  mind  of 
man.  There  is  a  strong  analogy  between  the  wants 
of  the  body  and  the  mind  ;  exertion  is  indispensable 
to  the  health  of  each ;  and  though  one  who  lives 
without  exercising  either  may  not  yet  perceive  the 
injury  he  is  doing  to  himself,  it  is  not  less  certain 
that  the  day  of  recompense  and  sorrow  must  come. 
Disease  is  as  sure  to  follow  the  inactive  mind  as  the 


EARNEST    DEVOTION.  O 

inactive  body.  Its  effects  are  not  open  to  the  eye, 
or  rather  they  are  not  noticed  by  careless  observers, 
though  they  may  be  seen  in  the  incapacity  for  serious 
reflection,  in  the  depraved  intellectual  taste  which 
can  relish  only  miscellaneous  novelty  or  intoxicating 
fiction,  or  in  the  distaste  for  common  enjoyments 
which  drives  men  to  indulgences  that  stupefy  the  un- 
derstanding and  destroy  the  soul.  Yes,  there  is  dis- 
ease to  the  mind,  and  there  is  death  that  follows  it, 
far  more  sad  than  the  disease  and  death  which  lay 
the  body  in  the  dust.  When  the  body  dies,  its  pains 
and  sorrows  are  over ;  not  so,  not  so  with  the  mind, 
which  dieth  not ;  when  coldness  wraps  the  suffering 
clay,  the  mind  still  lives  and  must  live  for  ever. 

Consider  the  effect  of  inaction  on  the  spiritual  na- 
ture of  man.  It  is  common  to  meet  with  those  who 
neither  look  forward  to  eternity  nor  up  to  God  ;  and 
the  consequence  is,  not  only  that  their  devotion,  if 
they  ever  had  any,  dies,  but  also  that  they  lose  the 
power  of  devotion.  They  lose  all  power  of  spiritual 
discernment,  so  that  the  great  realities  of  another 
world  have  no  presence  nor  life  to  the  soul.  Some 
are  so  thoughtless,  that  they  are  not  troubled  at  what 
is  going  on  within  them ;  but  those  whose  conscience 
is  not  quite  gone  cannot  live  thus  without  uneasi- 
ness. They  are  disquieted  within  ;  they  try  to  ac- 
count for  their  indifference  to  the  things  which  ought 
to  engage  them  by  ascribing  them  to  other  influen- 
ces or  other  men.  The  views  of  religion  in  which 
they  were  educated,  the  preachers  they  have  been 
used  to  hear,  the  unworthy  representatives  of  Chris- 
1* 


EARNEST    DEVOTION. 


tian  character  they  have  been  accustomed  to  see,  —  to 
these,  and  indeed  to  any  thing  sooner  than  to  them- 
selves, they  ascribe  their  indifference,  when  the  truth 
is  that  it  originates  within.  They  will  make  exper- 
iment of  new  teachers  and  new  fancies ;  one  painted 
form  of  godliness  will  be  adopted  and  dismissed  after 
another;  each  will  be  in  its  turn  enthusiastically  wel- 
comed and  coldly  rejected,  but  the  disease  will  re- 
main the  same,  because  it  is  one  of  those  incurable 
infirmities  which  in  the  order  of  nature  inevitably 
comes  on  spiritual  natures  not  exerted,  and  it  ends 
in  what  inspiration  calls  the  death  of  the  soul. 

This  is  the  darkest  and  most  fearful  thought  that 
can  be  presented  to  the  human  mind,  —  the  death 
and  ruin  of  the  soul.  I  know  there  is  a  common 
-persuasion,  that,  even  if  the  powers  of  devotion  have 
slept  for  years,  if  the  man  has  been  through  all  his 
life  steadily  indifferent  to  spiritual  things,  he  may 
yet  be  awakened  to  a  sense  of  his  guilt  and  danger. 
It  is  true  he  may ;  but  if  he  is  awakened  to  a  sense 
of  guilt  and  danger,  that  consciousness  is  not  suffi- 
cient to  remove  them.  I  know  there  is  strength  in 
Jesus,  who  is  "  the  power  of  God  and  the  wisdom  of 
God,"  more  than  sufficient  to  remove  them.  But  can 
the  man  be  sure  that  he  shall  ever  have  that  faith  in 
Jesus  Christ,  without  which  the  blood  of  the  ever- 
lasting covenant  will  not  avail  him?  There  is  a  time, 
when,  as  the  Apostle  says,  "  ye  cannot  do  the  things 
that  ye  would,"  —  when  the  awful  sentence  passes 
on  the  unprofitable  soul,  "Let  no  fruit  grow  on  thee 
henceforth  for  ever  !  " 


EARNEST    DEVOTION.  7 

The  same  is  true  of  love  to  men,  that  other  great 
duty  which  God  has  so  intimately  associated  with 
devotion.  This  feeling  can  be  strengthened  into  a 
principle  by  the  common  sympathy  of  life,  —  that 
sympathy  which  is  never  so  strong  and  sure  as  when 
sanctified  by  religious  feeling.  But  if  our  benevo- 
lent impulses  are  not  followed^  we  lose  not  only  the 
opportunity  of  the  moment,  but  we  lose  the  power 
of  exertion  ;  and  thus  it  is  that  men,  without  know- 
ing it,  sink  into  a  selfishness  so  inveterate  that  they 
will  do  nothing  and  sacrifice  nothing  either  for  God 
or  man,  and,  while  others  wonder  at  their  hardness, 
never  suspect  that  their  hearts  are  cold.  They  are 
like  the  wayfarer  in  the  polar  regions ;  after  suffering 
awhile  with  the  cold,  he  feels  a  sleep  stealing  over 
him  ;  it  comes  without  pain,  it  gives  no  warning  of 
danger  ;  unable  to  resist  the  persuasive  influence,  he 
sinks  into  slumber,  from  which  he  never  wakes  in 
this  world  again.  It  is  in  the  same  way  that  hearts 
are  frozen  ;  they  feel  no  danger,  they  suspect  not 
that  the  sleep  which  is  stealing  over  them  is  the 
sleep  of  death. 

Having  thus  endeavoured  to  show  what  law  we 
are  under,  let  us  take  a  more  practical  view  of  the 
subject.  Love  to  God  and  love  to  man  are  the  great 
elements  of  that  character  which  we  are  sent  into 
this  world  to  form,  and  it  is  practising  on  these  prin- 
ciples which  gives  them  power  and  increases  their 
power  within  us.  It  is  because  the  seraphs  rest  not 
day  and  night,  that  their  hearts  become  living  flames 
in  the  service  of  their  God. 


8  EARNEST    DEVOTION. 

We  are  to  remember,  then,  that  God  has  so  arranged 
the  present  life  that  all  things  favor  the  growth  of 
love  to  man  in  those  who  really  determine  to  pos- 
sess it,  while  all  things  seem  to  hinder  it  in  those 
who  hold  it  in  slight  regard.  Whenever  an  oppor- 
tunity of  benevolence  is  offered,  —  whenever  God's 
providence  makes  an  appeal,  as  it  often  does,  to  our 
kind  feeling,  —  we  should  feel  that  to  resist  it  or  reject 
it  is  wrong.  Not  only  is  there  sin  in  the  immediate 
act  of  suppressing  the  kind  suggestion.  It  is  not  a 
thing  that  ends  here  ;  it  is  not  a  thing  neglected 
and  then  over ;  no,  the  results  of  that  neglect  are  to 
go  deep  and  far  into  the  life.  It  is  so  much  done  to 
injure  and  destroy  the  principles  and  affections  which 
form  the  only  treasures  of  heaven  ;  they  are  all  the 
wealth  we  can  carry  from  this  world  into  another, 
and  without  them  we  shall  be  poor  indeed. 

So,  if  we  have  the  least  desire  to  possess  the  spirit 
of  devotion,  we  shall  take  advantage  of  every  time 
and  every  service  that  can  awaken  the  spirit  of  de- 
votion. We  shall  welcome  the  Sabbath  as  often  as 
it  returns  to  remind  us  of  that  duty  and  invite  us  to 
perform  it.  We  shall  welcome  its  deep  silence  and 
sacred  repose,  in  which  we  sometimes  seem  to  hear 
the  bells  of  heaven  sounding  far  and  faintly  in  the 
sky.  We  shall  not  say,  as  the  manner  of  some  is, 
that  we  need  not  go  with  the  multitude  to  the  places 
of  social  prayer ;  for  He  who  knows  our  nature  sees 
that  unless  love  to  men  goes  hand  in  hand  with  love 
to  God,  the  latter  may  become  a  degenerate,  even 
a   selfish   affection,    losing  all    its   life   and    power. 


EARNEST    DEVOTION.  9 

Therefore  does  He  associate  the  duties,  that  we  may- 
grow  in  familiarity  and  attachment  to  our  brethren, 
while  we  are  advancing  in  the  heavenly  preparation 
of  love  to  God  ;  and  therefore  does  He  expect  us  to 
improve  these  means  of  strengthening  that  power  of 
devotion,  which,  if  not  exerted,  sinks  into  withering 
inaction  and  incurable  decay.  To  neglect  these  op- 
portunities is  not  simply  losing  what  can  be  made  up 
at  some  future  time  ;  it  will  not  do  to  say  that  some 
future  time  is  as  good  as  the  present  hour.  No,  for 
if  the  time  should  come,  the  power  may  be  gone  ; 
and  when  the  man  tries  in  agony  to  kindle  the  faint 
spark  within  him  into  a  flame,  he  may  find  that  his 
heart,  once  suffered  to  grow  cold,  shall  never  be 
warm  again. 

To  return,  then,  to  the  vision  of  heaven  with  which 
we  began  j  we  hope  at  some  future  time  to  be  there. 
Our  days  are  fast  going  down  to  join  the  past  eter- 
nity, and  the  day  cannot  be  distant  which  shall  call 
us  to  the  land  of  souls.  If  we  hope  to  join  with 
the  radiant  spirits  round  the  throne,  we  must  faith- 
fully cherish  the  power  of  devotion.  After  the  man- 
ner of  those  who  rest  not  day  and  night,  our  prayer 
must  ascend  when  the  morning  lights  up  the  skies, 
and  when  the  evening  sheds  its  sweet  influences  on 
the  world  below.  We  must  suffer  no  other  care,  no 
other  pleasure,  to  prevent  our  engaging  in  that  earth- 
ly communion  with  God,  which,  more  than  any 
thing  else,  prepares  us  for  his  presence  and  service 
on  high. 


SERMON    II. 


THE  SISTERS  OF  CHARITY. 

THIS   WOMAN   WAS    FULL    OF    GOOD   WORKS    AND    ALMSDEEDS   WHICH 

she  did.  —  Acts  ix.  36. 

The  incidents  of  Scripture  are  told  with  perfect 
simplicity,  —  with  almost  severe  simplicity,  —  trust- 
ing, doubtless,  that  the  book  would  be  near  men's 
-hearts;  for  if  the  thought  and  imagination  are  quick- 
ened into  strong,  powerful  action  by  the  deep  interest 
which  it  should  inspire,  the  barren  outline  will  fill 
up,  the  faded  colors  will  kindle  into  life.  These 
records  of  the  past  will  come  before  us  in  present 
reality,  and  we  shall  feel  their  power ;  for  they  not 
only  record  what  has  been,  but  what  can  be  again, — 
what  will  be,  must  be,  again.  They  are  histories  of 
the  heart,  which  is  ever  new  and  ever  young. 

It  is  an  affecting  history  of  the  kind  which  is  now 
before  us.  In  the  town  of  Joppa,  which,  under  its 
present  name  of  Jaffa,  has  been  the  scene  of  bloody 
tragedies  in  our  own  day,  dwelt  a  young  person  who 
had  given  herself  to  labors  of  humanity,  and  there- 
fore was  among  the  foremost  to  become  a  Christian. 
Her  name,  Tabitha,   was  the  Syrian  name  of  the 


THE    SISTERS    OF    CHARITY.  11 

gazelle,  which  throughout  the  East  is  the  image  of 
beauty  and  gracefulness,  of 

"  airy  step  and  glorious  eye, 
That  glance  in  tameless  transport  by  "  ; 

and  this,  as  all  antiquity  agrees,  was  given  her  for 
her  singular  loveliness  and  attraction.  With  all  the 
means  of  enjoying  life,  as  it  is  called,  —  O,  how  little 
that  enjoying  of  life  is  understood  !  —  she  chose  the 
better  part  ;  in  the  days  of  her  youth,  when  life  was 
bright  before  her,  she  lived  for  others  and  for  God. 
In  the  midst  of  her  usefulness  she  fell  sick  and  died ; 
many  hearts  died  within  them  at  the  loss.  In  their 
sorrow  they  sent  for  the  Christian  apostle,  to  receive 
from  him  the  comfort  which  his  religion  bestows. 
When  he  came,  they  took  him  to  the  chamber  where 
the  lifeless  body  lay  ;  and  the  poor  and  destitute 
crowded  round  him,  telling  him,  with  many  tears,  of 
the  virtues  of  their  benefactor,  and  showing  with 
warm-hearted  gratitude  what  she  had  done  for 
them  all. 

He  perceives  at  once  that  such  a  life  cannot  yet 
be  spared.  It  is  wanted  to  give  loveliness  and  at- 
traction to  the  religion  which  she  professed,  while  it 
is  yet  new  and  unwelcome  to  the  world.  He  kneels 
down  and  prays,  and  the  life  returns  to  the  tenant- 
less  clay.  How,  like  a  flash  from  heaven,  it  must 
have  fired  with  heavenly  joy  those  hearts  which 
were  mourning  for  her  as  lost  for  ever  !  But  was  it 
not  hard  to  recall  her  from  the  mansions  of  rest  ?  Was 
it  not  hard  to  reclaim  her,  to  pass  through  the  bitter- 


12  THE    SISTERS    OF    CHARITY. 

ness  of  life  and  the  agony  of  death  again  ?  No  ; 
for  to  such  a  spirit  life  could  not  be  otherwise  than 
happy,  and  the  pains  of  death  are  swallowed  up  in  a 
victory  of  the  soul.  And  it  must  be  remembered 
that  a  spirit  like  hers  is  in  perfect  harmony  with  its 
Father's  will,  having  no  desire  to  rest  before  its  work 
is  done,  no  desire  to  live  or  die,  except  as  it  pleases 
God. 

I  present  to  you  this  sweet  passage  of  sacred  his- 
tory, in  hope  that  it  will  inspire  some  of  the  young 
to  give  themselves,  as  she  did,  to  the  service  of  hu- 
manity, resisting  the  selfish  influences'  and  maxims 
of  the  world,  —  to  resolve,  in  the  outset  of  existence, 
that  they  will  spend  it  as  the  Saviour  did,  going 
about  doing  good.  Here  you  see  what  enthusiastic 
, affection  such  a  life  awakened  in  those  who  saw  it, 
and  how  deep  was  the  sense  of  personal  loss,  when 
it  seemed  to  have  closed  in  death.  You  see,  too,  and 
let  this  be  remembered,  that  such  a  life  was  impor- 
tant, even  in  the  sight  of  God  himself ;  so  much  so, 
that  he  gave  power  and  charge  to  an  Apostle  to  send 
his  voice  into  the  world  of  spirits  to  summon  back 
her  soul.  Such  a  life  is  within  your  reach  ;  any  one 
of  you  may  secure  the  same  treasures  of  affection, 
the  same  peace  of  conscience,  the  same  unfading 
crown. 

Has  the  Christian  world  been  unmoved  by  these 
inspiring  and  beautiful  examples  ?  or  rather,  has  the 
voice  of  the  Saviour  produced  no  effect  on  young 
hearts  when  it  calls  them  to  glory  and  virtue,  — to 
the  service  of  humanity  and  the  bearing  of  the  cross? 


THE    SISTERS    OF    CHARITY.  13 

In  the  Catholic  Church  there  have  been  those  who 
have  listened  to  his  words,  —  who,  in  the  morning  of 
existence,  when  the  world  was  bright  before  them, 
with  wealth,  high  birth,  and  beauty,  and  every  thing 
to  bind  them  to  earthly  things,  have,  nevertheless, 
chosen  the  better  part,  —  content  to  watch  by  the 
bedside  of  the  sick,  to  visit  the  sufferer  of  the  cottage, 
to  enlighten  the  dark  soul,  to  give  their  sympathy  to 
the  destitute  and  forsaken,  and  follow  as  Sisters  of 
Charity  in  the  path  of  their  heavenly  Master.  There 
were  errors  in  the  Catholic  Church,  no  doubt;  but  not 
in  this.  It  was  religion,  pure  and  undefiled  before 
God  and  the  Father ;  and  well  would  it  be  for  us, 
when  we  condemn  a  sect  or  party,  to  cherish  and 
imitate  every  thing  that  is  good  about  them,  and 
suffer  their  frailties  to  rest,  always  remembering  that 
goodness  is  goodness,  in  whatever  heart  it  dwells, 
and  that  whoever  in  early  life  turns  away  from  the 
broad  and  beaten  path,  and  labors  up  the  hill  of  truth 
and  duty,  must,  as  heaven  is  true,  be  like  charity 
itself,  for  ever  blessing  and  for  ever  blest. 

We  boast  that  our  faith  is  purer  than  theirs.  If 
so,  it  should  produce  more  of  the  fruits  of  righteous- 
ness and  mercy.  The  faith  which  works  by  love 
is  the  faith  which  Jesus  would  fain  inspire;  and 
when  I  ask  that  some  would  give  themselves  thus 
to  the  service  of  humanity  and  the  cross,  shall  not 
the  call,  —  it  is  the  call  of  God,  —  shall  it  not  find 
an  answer  in  some  young  heart  ?  I  ask  none  to  sep- 
arate themselves  from  the  world,  "for  the  field  is  the 
world  "  ;  there  it  is  that  these  constant  acts  of  kind- 
2 


14  THE    SISTERS    OF    CHARITY. 

ness  are  to  be  done.  I  ask  none  to  separate  them- 
selves from  domestic  life  and  happiness,  but  only 
that  the  same  light  which  blesses  those  that  are  in 
the  house  should  shine  out  to  cheer  and  bless  the 
darkness  of  the  less  favored  sons  of  men.  Choose 
this  path  of  truth  and  mercy,  and  you  will  hereafter 
glory  in  your  choice  ;  it  wall  be  a  life-long  blessing  ; 
and  with  what  a  radiant  happiness  it  will  light  up 
your  closing  day  ! 

But  let  us  look  at  the  subject  nearer.  I  think  I 
hear  some  one  saying  in  her  heart,  "  I  cannot  make 
this  sacrifice."  I  would  answer,  My  friend,  you  are 
deceiving  yourself  with  a  word.  You  may  be  sure 
that  you  can  make  no  sacrifice  to  God,  whatever 
you  do  or  suffer  ;  you  may  be  sure,  that,  if  your  heart 
-is  right,  you  will  receive  far  more  than  you  give  up 
to  him  ;  if  he  calls  you  to  suffer,  he  will  give  you 
more  than  he  takes  away.  But  why  this  constant 
demand  for  happiness  ?  Why  do  you  feel  as  if  life 
was  lost,  unless  you  enjoy  every  hour  ?  This  is  not 
the  purpose  for  which  you  are  here  ;  it  is  not  to  be 
happy  that  you  are  sent  into  this  world.  The  single 
object  of  existence  is  to  be  holy,  heavenly-minded  ; 
if  you  can  secure  this  treasure  of  holiness,  it  is  of 
little  importance  whether  life  is  passed  in  want  or 
comfort,  in  sorrow  or  in  joy.  But  I  pray  you  to  ob- 
serve the  goodness  of  heaven  in  this,  that  the  paths 
of  duty  and  happiness  are  inseparably  one.  The 
person  who  makes  the  most  entire  surrender  of  self- 
indulgence  and  self-will,  who  devotes  herself  most 
earnestly,  most  intensely,   to  the  service  of  others, 


THE    SISTERS    OF    CHARITY.  15 

never  seeming  to  have  a  thought  for  her  own  com- 
fort or  pleasure,  shall  receive  what  she  is  daily  meas- 
uring out  to  others,  returned  in  full  measure,  pressed 
down  and  running  over  into  her  own  breast.  The 
deepest  enjoyment  of  life  that  ever  I  have  seen,  the 
finest  sensibility  to  all  those  blessings  in  which  this 
world  abounds, —  yes,  by  far  the  truest  and  surest  hap- 
piness that  I  have  ever  witnesse'd,  —  has  been  found 
in  connection  with  this  self-sacrificing  spirit ;  by  lov- 
ing itself  last,  it  gained  all  the  joy  of  others  in  addi- 
tion to  its  own.  If  I  thirsted  to  secure  the  happiness 
of  any  human  being,  I  should  pray  that  such  a  being 
might  take  up  the  cross,  giving  heart,  hand,  and  life 
to  the  labors  of  love  which  the  Saviour  delighted  to 
do ;  for  then  I  should  be  sure  that  His  joy  would  be 
in  that  heart,  and  its  joy  would  be  full,  so  that,  at 
the  close  of  every  laborious  day,  it  would  pour  itself 
out  in  the  words,  —  "  O  God,  thou  hast  blessed  me  ! 
I  ask  for  no  more." 

But  while  it  is  not  necessary  that  a  human  being 
should  be  happy,  it  is  necessary  that  every  one  who 
values  his  soul  should  be  united  in  full  sympathy 
with  the  Saviour,  drawing  the  support  of  its  relig- 
ious life  from  him  and  through  him,  as  a  branch  is 
nourished  by  the  vine  from  which  it  grows.  Christ 
thus  in  us,  exerting  influence  in  us,  and  quickening 
life  in  us,  is  our  only  hope  of  glory  ;  and  there  can- 
not be  an  object  more  important  to  every  true  heart, 
than  to  secure  this  union  of  sympathy,  desire,  pur- 
pose, and  endeavour  with  the  Saviour,  which  shall 
make  his  feelings  our  feelings,  which  shall  make  us 


16  THE     SISTERS    OF    CHARITY. 

look  on  all  things  as  he  saw  them,  and  give  us  a 
deep  and  sincere  interest  in  that  which  he  most  de- 
lighted to  do.  There  is  no  way  in  which  this  union 
can  be  formed  so  surely  and  so  soon,  as  to  engage 
with  all  the  heart  in  those  labors  and  charities  which 
were  the  daily  work  and  pleasure  of  his  life  when 
he  was  on  earth.  Perform  a  kind  action  and  you 
find  a  kind  feeling  growing  in  yourself,  even  if  it 
was  not  there  before.  As  you  increase  the  number 
of  objects  of  your  kind  and  charitable  interest,  you 
find,  that,  the  more  you  do  for  them,  the  more  you 
love  them.  If  such  charities  are  guided  by  your 
taste  or  fancy,  and  limited  to  those  in  whom  you 
happen  to  be  interested,  it  will  not  be  so.  You  will 
find  that  charity  itself  may  be  a  self-indulgence 
-merely,  and  then  it  will  only  strengthen  selfish  feel- 
ing. But  only  act  upon  the  broad  principle  of  love, 
as  unfolded  in  the  Saviour's  life  ;  serve  others,  not 
because  they  are  your  friends,  not  because  they  are 
interesting,  not  because  they  are  grateful,  —  serve 
them  when  they  are  unfriendly,  when  they  are  dis- 
tasteful, even  disgusting,  —  serve  them  when  they 
are  ungrateful,  —  serve  them  because  they  are  the 
children  of  your  Father,  and  therefore  are  all  your 
brethren,  — and  you  will  soon  find  that  the  fervent 
heart  keeps  time  with  the  charitable  hands,  and  warms 
towards  the  Saviour  as  its  best  and  kindest  friend. 
Surely  such  labor  is  not  vain  ;  and  when  Christ,  who 
is  your  life,  shall  appear,  you  will  rejoice  that  you 
chose  that  path,  however  hard  it  may  have  been  to 
tread. 


THE    SISTERS    OF    CHARITY.  17 

But  this  full  sympathy  with  our  Saviour  in  his 
views,  principles,  and  feelings  is  not  the  ultimate 
object,  the  great  object,  of  the  Christian  life.  The 
only  worthy  object  of  any  life  is  to  be  as  nearly  as 
possible  one  with  the  Father  ;  so  that  when  we  act 
or  suffer,  our  will  shall  be  in  perfect  harmony  with 
that  of  God.  It  is  through  Jesus  Christ  that  we  can 
ascend  to  this  attainment.  He  is  the  way  through 
which  we  can  reach  the  knowledge  and  love  of  the 
Father  ;  beginning  with  the  imitation  and  love  of 
Jesus,  we  travel  upward  to  that  filial  reverence,  trust, 
and  love  of  God,  which  is  the  prize  of  our  high 
calling,  —  which  whoever  has  is  rich,  and  cannot,  be 
poor,  whatever  else  is  taken  away.  "  As  thou,  Fa- 
ther, art  in  me,  and  I  in  thee,  that  they  also  may  be 
one  in  us."  As  the  Father  was  in  his  heart,  and  he 
in  his  Father's,  that  these  weak  human  hearts  might 
be  turned  to  the  heavenly  spirits  who  love  them  with 
answering  confidence  of  love.  Labor  as  you  will, 
dream  as  you  will  of  other  happiness,  you  will  find 
in  another  world  that  this  is  the  great  happiness  of 
existence,  —  the  only  one  that  satisfies,  the  only  one 
that  endures ;  it  is  fulness  of  joy,  it  is  life  for  ever- 
more. 

But  how  can  you  reach  this  great  attainment,  —  to 
be  thus  in  harmony  with  the  Father  ?  There  are 
worlds  of  delusion  here.  It  is  frightful  to  think  how 
many  are  constantly  using  religious  language,  and 
expressing  devotional  feelings,  merely  from  a  re- 
ligious taste,  and  because  they  enjoy  it,  when  there 
is  no  consecration  of  temper,  of  passions,  of  heart, 
2# 


18  THE    SISTERS    OF    CHARITY. 

or  life,  to  God.  How  can  you  escape  this  most 
dreadful  of  all  delusions  ?  You  see  the  Father  in 
the  life  of  his  Son  ;  he  said  that  a  favor  to  one  of 
the  least,  the  most  despised,  the  most  hated,  of  these 
my  brethren,  —  observe  those  words,  of  these  my 
brethren,  —  was  a  favor  done  to  him.  And  in  this 
shone  forth  the  spirit  of  the  Father,  and  his  deep 
and  tender  concern  for  all  the  creatures  he  has  made. 
Would  you  be,  then,  in  harmony  with  the  Father  ? 
After  holding  near  communion  with  him,  go  forth  to 
serve  the  least  of  your  brethren,  those  whom  even 
the  Samaritan  passes  by  ;  make  it  sure  that  you  can 
treat  those  whom  the  Saviour  calls  his  brethren  as 
your  own.  Do  not  deceive  yourself  as  thousands 
do,  by  gratifying  your  own  taste  and  feeling,  and 
calling  this  charity  ;  but  under  all  circumstances  of 
disgust,  contempt,  and  provocation,  be  unwearied  in 
well-doing,  and  be  sure  that  you  are  doing  it,  not  for 
your  own  sake,  but  your  Master's.  The  more  faith- 
fully, the  more  entirely,  you  can  do  this,  the  sooner 
will  the  love  of  God  be  shed  abroad  in  your  hearts. 
By  doing  his  will,  you  will  arrive  at  the  understand- 
ing of  Christian  truth,  and  the  full  enjoyment  of 
that  peace  which  passes  understanding,  with  which 
it  is  happiness  to  live,  and  glory  and  gain  to  die. 

I  am  the  more  earnest  in  offering  this  example, 
and  proposing  this  dedication  of  the  life,  because 
there  is  a  service  to  Christianity  which  some  should 
step  forward  to  render.  There  is  much  genuine  re- 
ligious feeling  in  the  world,  but  it  is  not  seen  in  at- 
tractive forms.     It  is  found  in  connection  with  nar- 


THE    SISTERS    OF    CHARITY.  19 

rowness,  gloom,  and  unsocial  feeling,  and  the  unen- 
gaging  aspect  which  it  wears  is  associated  with  the 
faith  itself  in  the  minds  of  beholders  ;  so  that  now 
the  greatest  service  that  can  be  done  to  religion  is, 
to  make  it  lovely  by  the  daily  beauty  of  the  Chris- 
tian life  ;  to  show  it  forth  again  as  it  appeared  in  the 
life  of  Jesus,  so  that  all  shall  be  impressed  with  a 
sense  of  its  loveliness,  and  all  hearts  shall  open  to  its 
power.  This  work  is  for  the  young  to  do.  Like 
the  person  of  whom  it  is  said  that  she  was  full  of 
good  works  and  almsdeeds,  let  them  show  what  the 
faith  is  which  inspires  them,  by  their  active,  bound- 
less, and  never-failing  charity,  and  words  cannot  tell 
how  much  they  will  do  to  remove  all  unbelief  and 
indifference,  and  to  clear  the  way  for  Christianity  to 
travel  from  heart  to  heart,  and  from  glory  to  glory. 
Any  one  who  can  do  this,  any  one  who  has  done 
this,  shall  come  up  in  grateful  remembrance  before 
God.  Do  this,  and  on  your  tomb  shall  be  written,  — 
"  She  suffered  long,  and  was  kind  ;  she  envied  not ; 
she  was  not  variable  ;  she  was  not  puffed  up.  She 
never  behaved  herself  harshly  ;  she  sought  not  her 
own  ;  she  was  not  easily  provoked  ;  she  thought  no 
evil.  She  rejoiced  not  in  iniquity  ;  she  rejoiced  in 
the  truth.  She  covered  all  things,  believed  all 
things,  hoped  all  things,  and  endured  all  things." 
Give  yourself  wholly  to  these  things,  and  such  will 
be  the  memory  you  will  leave  behind  you.  Such  a 
memory  shall  be  like  the  sunlight  reflected  from  the 
western  clouds,  even  more  beautiful  than  the  rays  of 
that  glorious  luminary  before  it  went  down  ;  and 


20  THE     SISTERS    OF    CHARITY. 

bright  shall  be  your  rising  in  the  world  beyond  the 
grave. 

I  propose  this  example  and  this  life  to  you,  in  the 
hope  that  it  will  meet  an  answering  feeling  in  some 
heart  before  me.  What  a  privilege,  what  a  glory,  to 
you  it  would  be  ! 

"  Lives  of  sainted  ones  remind  you 

You  can  make  your  life  sublime, 
And  in  parting  leave  behind  you 

Footsteps  on  the  shores  of  time, 
Footsteps,  which  perhaps  another 

Voyager  o'er  life's  solemn  main,    . 
A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 

Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again." 

For  whoever  leads  a  life  of  charity  serves  God, 
not  only  by  these  acts,  and  smiles,  and  expressions 
of  love,  but  also,  and  even  more,  by  inspiring  others, 
by  the  "  Go  thou  and  do  likewise,"  which  every 
such  life  breathes  out  with  a  commanding  voice.  I 
entreat  you  to  secure  this  blessing  ;  it  is  within  the 
reach  of  any  hand,  if  the  full  heart  goes  with  the 
endeavour.  It  is  one  of  the  few  things  which  here- 
after you  will  not  wish  undone  or  otherwise  done  ; 
it  will  be  the  pearl  of  greatest  price  in  your  immor- 
tal crown. 


SERMON    III.* 


READY  TO  BE  OFFERED. 

I    AM    NOW  READY  TO    BE    OFFERED,    AND    THE    TIME    OF    MY    DEPART- 
URE is  at  hand.  —  2  Timothy  iv.  6. 

I  know  not  where  you  will  find  in  man's  history 
a  nobler  scene  than  this.  It  is  a  servant  of  God 
standing  near  the  eternal  world ;  and  where  the  timid 
and  the  brave  alike  turn  pale,  he  gazes,  with  clear, 
calm,  I  might  say  with  triumphant  eye,  into  that 
eternity  where  most  men  are  afraid  to  look.  In  the 
midst  of  long  imprisonment,  deserted  by  his  friends, 
entirely  in  the  power  of  his  foes,  evidently  having 
nothing  human  to  support  him,  he  feels  neither  de- 
spondency nor  dismay.  He  rejoices,  —  that  word  is 
not  too  strong,  —  he  rejoices  in  the  hope  set  before 
him.  That  same  hope,  which  to  thousands  in  the 
Christian  world  is  nothing,  having  less  power  than 
the  poorest  earthly  hope  to  make  them  glad,  is  every 
thing  to  him,  having  power  to  make  even  the  deep 
dungeon  bright.  He  is  "troubled  on  every  side,  yet 
not  distressed  ;  perplexed,  but  not  in  despair  ;  perse- 

*  Preached  at  the  funeral  of  William  Bliss,  Esq.,  who  died  March 

8,  1838. 


22  READY    TO    BE    OFFERED. 

cuted,  but  not  forsaken ;  cast  down,  but  not  de- 
stroyed." 

See  how  he  employs  himself  in  that  awful  hour  ; 
not  with  his  own  feelings,  not  with  his  own  hopes 
and  fears  ;  for  he  was  dead  to  the  world,  and  the 
world  was  dead  to  him.  His  hopes  are  for  others  ; 
his  fears  are  for  others ;  he  ardently  desires  that 
others  may  share  the  faith  which  has  given  such  firm- 
ness to  him.  And  therefore  does  he  charge  his  friend, 
in  the  presence  of  the  living  God,  —  before  Jesus 
Christ,  who  is  to  judge  the  living  and  the  dead,  — 
to  press  home  the  truths  of  the  Gospel  to"  every  heart ; 
to  suffer  no  consciences  to  sleep,  if  it  is  possible  to 
wake  them ;  to  prevent  them  from  going  unprepared, 
unconcerned,  to  the  place  where  every  one  shall  re- 
ceive according  to  his  deeds.  For  himself,  he  says 
that  he  has  fought  a  good  fight ;  he  has  finished  his 
course  without  losing  the  faith ;  and  now  he  is  ready 
to  be  offered,  when,  as  he  fully  believes,  the  time  for 
the  sacrifice  had  come. 

Here  is  a  mystery,  —  that  a  human  being,  frail 
and  helpless  as  human  beings  are,  should  maintain 
such  perfect  serenity  at  such  an  hour,  should  be  so 
forgetful  of  himself  and  so  anxious  for  others  !  And 
how  will  you  explain  it  ?  Is  it  a  delusion  ?  No  ; 
for  delusions  sink  and  vanish  before  the  stern  reality 
of  death.  Is  it  enthusiasm  ?  No  ;  he  is  collected 
and  firm  as  ever  ;  he  understands  his  own  feelings  ; 
he  has  weighed  his  words.  The  reason  that  he 
stands  firm  when  others  tremble  is,  that  a  strength 
not  his  own  supports  him  ;  he  leans  on  the  Rock  of 


READY    TO    BE    OFFERED.  23 

Ages  ;  he  has  light  from  on  high  to  cheer  and  guide 
him  in  the  dark  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death. 

Let  us  endeavour  to  understand  this  state  of  mind. 
It  is  one  that  all  are  concerned  to  know.  For  an 
hour  not  far  from  any  one  of  us  is  to  determine  how 
we  shall  go  to  the  grave  ;  —  whether  we  shall  have 
this  holy  confidence,  which  nothing  but  a  trust  in 
Jesus  Christ  inspires  ;  or  whether  we  shall  approach 
the  close  of  life,  insensible,  unsustained,  having  no 
resource  but  to  shut  our  eyes  to  all  that  is  before  us, 
and  to  keep  our  hearts  fixed  fast  on  this  world,  till 
the  dream  is  broken,  and  we  find  ourselves  in  that 
world  where  we  can  sleep  no  longer. 

Undoubtedly,  the  chief  reason  of  this  holy  and 
happy  confidence  was,  that  he  was  living  no  longer 
to  this  world;  he  was  living  "the  life  of  God."  He 
had  begun  a  new  life  from  the  time  when  he  saw 
the  vision  of  his  Master  looking  down  upon  him,  in 
sorrow,  not  in  anger,  and  asking  what  he  had  done 
to  deserve  such  persecution.  From  that  moment  his 
views  were  changed  ;  his  feelings  were  changed  ;  his 
whole  heart  was  changed.  No  longer  burning  with 
ambition,  no  longer  dazzled  by  this  world's  glories, 
his  spiritual  nature  was  awakened  ;  he  saw  himself 
in  a  new  light ;  he  abhorred  himself,  and  repented 
in  dust  and  ashes.  He  saw  that  in  those  days  when 
his  countrymen  cheered  him  as  the  defender  of  their 
Law,  he  had  been  governed,  not  by  conscience,  but 
by  self-deceiving  passion, — passion  which  led  him 
to  trample  on  the  rights  of  others,  and  to  bring  deep 
stains  of  blood  upon  his  soul.     He  felt  that  he  was 


24  READY    TO    BE    OFFERED. 

the  chief  of  sinners.  But  when  he  came  to  the  feet 
of  Him  "  that  liveth  and  was  dead,"  when  he  found 
that,  so  far  from  being  cast  out  and  scorned,  he  was 
welcomed,  trusted,  employed  in  the  service  of  that 
cross  which  he  had  dishonored,  it  seemed  to  him  as 
if  the  entire  devotion  of  all  his  life  and  all  his  soul 
to  his  Master  would  be  too  little  to  atone  for  the  in- 
sults and  injuries  of  former  days.  A  clear,  bright 
flame  of  love  to  God  and  man  shot  upward  in  his 
heart  ;  he  cared  for  himself  no  longer.  Days  of 
hardship,  nights  of  watching,  prisons,  chains,  dangers 
by  land  and  sea,  had  no  more  terrors  for  him  ;  and 
when  affection  urged  that  he  was  going  too  far,  he 
tore  himself  away.  "  What  mean  ye  to  weep,  and 
to  break  my  heart  ?  "  For  the  Lord  Jesus  he  was 
willing,  not  only  to  be  bound,  but  to  die. 

Could  such  a  man  fear  to  be  offered  when  the 
time  of  his  departure  was  at  hand  ?  O,  no  !  Death 
had  no  terrors  that  could  affright  the  living  martyr. 
His  only  desire  was  to  take  the  post  assigned  him  in 
life,  and  there  to  fight  the  battles  of  the  cross  till  the 
Chief  of  his  salvation  permitted  him  to  lay  down  his 
arms.  In  his  breast  the  world  was  overcome.  See- 
ing what  others  did  not  see,  governed  by  influences 
which  had  nothing  to  do  with  this  world,  sustained 
by  a  faith  in  unseen  realities  which  the  world  knew 
not  of,  to  him  it  was  not  death  to  die.  He  could 
look  on  the  fires  of  martyrdom,  even  if  burning  for 
him,  almost  as  serenely  as  a  returning  wanderer  sees 
the  warm  red  light  shining  from  the  window  of  his 
home. 


READY    TO    BE    OFFERED.  25 

Again  :  the  same  change  which  had  destroyed  the 
power  of  the  world  over  him  had  brought  him  into 
near  communion  with  his  God.  From  a  child  of  the 
world,  wholly  bent  on  its  pursuits,  wholly  enslaved 
by  its  influences,  never  looking  above  it  nor  beyond 
it,  he  had  become  a  child  of  God  ;  not  only  believ- 
ing that  there  is  a  God,  but  feeling  it,  rejoicing  to 
feel  it,  always  ready  to  go  to  him  and  pour  out  his 
soul  to  him  in  the  glad  confidence  of  love.  While 
to  many  God  is  nothing  but  a  name,  while  millions 
of  thoughts  pass  over  their  minds  every  day,  of  which 
God  is  not  one,  while  others  have  each  some  human 
beings  whom  they  love  and  some  whom  they  fear 
more  than  the  Highest,  in  his  soul  God  was  the 
great  central  thought.  All  others  received  light  from 
it,  like  the  planets  round  the  sun  ;  no  other  thought, 
not  the  whole  world,  could  eclipse  it  ;  to  him  God 
was  all  in  all. 

Having  the  profound  conviction  that  God  is  a  fa- 
ther, and  one  whose  kindness  far  exceeds  the  best 
tenderness  of  human  love,  he  could  go  to  him  with 
filial  confidence,  to  cast  his  care  upon  him,  to  make 
known  his  wants  and  sorrows,  to  revive  his  spiritual 
affections  in  that  communion  where  hearts  almost 
bursting  with  agony  have  found  the  truth  of  the 
promise,  ':  Thou  wilt  keep  him  in  perfect  peace 
whose  heart  is  stayed  on  thee."  To  him,  there  was 
no  such  thing  as  accident  or  chance  ;  nothing  ever 
happened  to  him  ;  every  event  was  appointed  and 
assigned,  and,  as  the  act  of  a  Father,  he  not  only 
submitted  to  it,  but  gave  it  welcome,  knowing  that, 
3 


26  READY    TO    BE     OFFERED. 

however  painful,  it  was  meant  as  a  blessing.  It  was 
a  blessing  ;  how  it  was  a  blessing  he  should  after- 
wards know. 

Fully  believing  that,  while  much  which  men  bring 
upon  themselves  is  evil,  every  thing  which  God 
brings  upon  them  is  good,  he  was  willing  to  leave 
the  time,  the  place,  the  manner,  of  his  departure  to 
God.  He  knew  that  each  one  who  leaves  the  world, 
not  destroyed  by  his  own  act,  not  wasted  by  his 
own  sensuality,  goes  at  the  very  moment  which  is 
best  for  him.  He  knew  that  God  would  say  whether 
his  life  should  expire  in  prayer,  or  gush  out  in  blood; 
and  he  was  ready  to  lie  down  upon  the  bed,  to  pine 
in  the  dungeon,  or  to  shrivel  in  the  flames,  to-day, 
or  to-morrow,  or  to  wait  God's  time.  To  him  Death 
was  not  a  spectre,  gloomy,  unrelenting,  striking 
men's  hearts,  and  crowding  the  graves  with  dead;  to 
him  the  act  of  death  was  no  other  than  the  act  of 
God,  —  of  him  who  cares  for  us  more  than  we  care 
for  ourselves.  Therefore,  though  he  had  a  desire  to 
go,  though  he  longed,  if  it  might  be,  to  be  with  his 
Master,  he  was  ready  to  do  his  duty  in  life  as  long 
as  it  pleased  his  God.  Being  pure  in  heart,  pure 
from  selfish  passions  and  desires,  he  was  able  to  see 
his  God.  God,  though  not  seen  by  the  living  eye, 
was  present  and  visible  to  his  soul.  By  faith  he  saw 
the  Invisible,  and  his  whole  heart  was  one  living, 
burning  sacrifice  to  his  God. 

Once  more  :  the  secret  of  his  readiness  to  depart 
was,  that  things  unseen  and  eternal  were  realities  to 
him.     Other  men  will  talk  of  them  ;  let  their  minds 


READY    TO    BE    OFFERED.  27 

play  about  them  ;  say  that  they  ought  to  awaken  in- 
terest, that  they  are  entitled  to  profound  regard. 
Still  they  awaken  no  interest  in  fact  ;  they  are  not 
regarded  ;  the  merest  trifle  of  the  day  engages  the 
attention  and  influences  the  conduct  more  than  these 
things,  in  which  man's  eternal  interests  are  bound 
up.  To  him  God  and  eternity  were  more  than  empty 
sounds ;  they  were  words  of  meaning,  words  of  pow- 
er, words  which  not  only  fell  upon  the  ear,  but 
touched  and  stirred  the  heart.  When  he  thought  of 
going  into  eternity,  it  did  not  seem  like  going  from 
firm  ground  into  unsubstantial  space,  uncertainty, 
darkness  ;  he  felt  that  this  world,  which  rocks,  and 
wastes,  and  changes  under  us,  is  not  the  immortal 
home  of  the  immortal  soul.  "  For  we  know,"  he 
says, — not  we  believe,  but  "we  know," — that  if 
our  earthly  dwelling,  this  tabernacle  of  flesh,  be  dis- 
solved, we  have  yet  a  building  of  God,  eternal  in 
the  heavens.  "  We  are  confident,  I  say,  and  willing 
rather  to  be  absent  from  the  body,  and  to  be  present 
with  the  Lord." 

This  is  the  great  attainment,  —  to  see  things  as 
they  are,  —  to  give  most  heed  and  most  heart  to  the 
most  important  things.  This  was  what  enabled  him 
to  say  "  our  light  afflictions  "  !  Light  did  he  call 
them  ?  Heavy  indeed  would  they  have  seemed  to 
any  but  him.  This  was  what  enabled  him  to  glory 
in  sufferings  where  others  sank  helpless  under  tbem. 
This  made  heaven  so  near,  that  death  had  no  terrors. 
Hence  the  inspiration  of  those  words,  —  memorable 
and  glorious  so  long  as  the  world  shall  stand,  —  "I 


28  READY    TO    BE    OFFERED. 

am  now  ready  to  be  offered,  and  the  time  of  my  de- 
parture is  at  hand.  I  have  finished  my  course  ;  I 
have  kept  the  faith  ;  henceforth  there  is  laid  up  for 
me  a  crown  of  righteousness,  which  the  Lord,  the 
righteous  Judge,  shall  give  me  at  that  day." 

I  have  endeavoured  to  describe  the  confidence 
which  faith  in  Jesus  Christ  inspired  in  one  of  his 
earliest  and  greatest  disciples.  It  can  inspire  the 
same  again.  It  has  inspired  it  in  many  Christians. 
Sustained  by  this  faith  in  the  Crucified,  they  have 
maintained  a  similar  confidence  ;  a  similar  joy  has 
breathed  itself  in  their  dying  words,  and  shone  in 
the  "  face  as  it  were  an  angel's,"  which  told  of 
heaven  within. 

Such  was  the  confidence  of  him  who  has  just  left 
us  for  the  grave.  He  died  as  man  ought  to  die.  I 
may  speak  of  his  departure,  though  I  may  not  tell 
you  of  his  virtues.  I  may  not  praise  the  dead.  Nor 
is  it  needed  here.  That  it  is  not  needed,  there  is 
many  a  tear  to  tell, 

"  None  knew  him,  but  to  love  him, 
Nor  named  him,  but  to  praise." 

It  was  the  earnest  wish  of  our  friend  that  he 
might  meet  us  here  again  ;  that  he  might  approach 
the  table  of  his  Master,  and  join  his  prayers  with 
ours  in  a  Sabbath  sacrifice  to  the  God  of  love.  The 
prayer  is  answered.  Behold  !  he  is  come.  Not  as 
we  wished  and  prayed  ;  but  he  is  come.  Not  with 
his  cheerful  bearing  ;  not  with  his  smile  of  kind- 
ness ;  not  with  serene  and  manly  brow ;  but  borne 


READY    TO    BE    OFFERED.  29 

by  the  hands  of  others,  the  shadow  of  death  on  his 
eyelids,  the  hand  which  would  have  returned  a  warm 
pressure  to  yours  cold,  icy  cold,  his  repose  so  deep, 
that  no  sound  can  reach  him  but  the  shout  of  the 
archangel  and  the  trump  of  God.  Still  I  say,  he  is 
come,  —  come  to  give  you  an  affectionate  warning, 
come  to  bid  you  a  last  farewell.  Give  him  wel- 
come ;  for  he  comes  to  remind  you  of  that  which  it 
may  be  life  to  remember,  of  that  which  it  may  be 
death  to  forget.  He  hath  no  ueed  of  words.  To 
your  hearts  he  says,  —  "  Weep  not  for  me,  but  weep 
for  yourselves  and  for  your  children." 

I  have  now  a  duty  to  perform.  When  I  saw  him 
last,  he  felt  that  he  was  a  dying  man.  He  had 
watched  a  fading  flower  that  stood  near  him,  and  ho 
felt  that  its  decline  was  prophetic  of  his  own.  Feel- 
ing that  he  was  moving  to  the  grave  with  a  rapidity 
which  man  had  no  power  to  stay,  he  spoke  with  the 
sincerity  of  the  dying.  For  himself,  he  said,  he  had 
no  fears.  He  deplored  the  sins  of  his  past  life  ;  he 
lamented  that  so  much  of  that  heart  which  belonged 
to  God  had  been  given  to  other  things.  But  he  had 
prayed  most  fervently  to  be  forgiven,  through  "  the 
Lamb  of  God,  that  taketh  away  the  sin  of  the  world  "  ; 
and  his  prayers  were  answered ;  he  had  found  rest  to 
his  soul.  To  the  world  he  had  no  wish  to  return  ; 
it  had  lost  all  its  attractions.  The  only  desire  he 
had  was  to  go  once  more  to  the  house  of  God,  to  sit 
at  the  table  of  his  Master,  and  to  meet  with  friends 
with  whom  he  might  improve  in  spiritual  things. 

"  How  much  might  be  done,"  he  said,  "  if  we  only 
3# 


30  READY    TO    BE    OFFERED. 

would  !  "  As  to  life  and  death,  he  had  no  anxiety  ; 
but  it  was  his  earnest  prayer,  that,  if  he  should  re- 
turn to  the  world,  it  might  be  with  a  different  spirit, 
with  higher  and  holier  influences  than  ever  before. 
Remember  his  words,  — "  How  much  might  be  done 
if  we  only  would  !  " 

Finding  that  he  had  no  anxiety  for  himself,  I 
asked  him  if  he  had  none  for  those  whom  he  was 
leaving,  —  for  the  wife,  for  the  children,  who  were 
inexpressibly  dear  to  him.  He  said  that  he  had  none. 
He  placed  full  confidence  in  God.  He  was  willing 
to  leave  them  in  the  hands  of  his  Father  and  their 
Father,  of  his  God  and  their  God.  When  he  bade 
farewell  to  his  children,  seeing  that  one  of  them 
was  overcome  with  sorrow,  he  told  her  he  had  often 
left  her  to  go  on  journeys,  and  now  he  must  leave 
her  once  more.  It  was  true  that  he  could  not  return 
to  her,  but  she  might  come  to  him.  He  trusted  she 
would  come  to  him.  And  thus  he  took  leave  of 
them  ;  but  not  for  ever.  He  doubted  not  that  they 
would  enjoy  the  protection  of  the  Father  of  the  fa- 
therless, and  the  widow's  Friend.  "I  have  been 
young,  and  now  am  old  ;  yet  never  have  I  seen  the 
righteous  forsaken,  nor  his  seed  begging  bread." 

But  I  found  that  he  had  his  anxiety,  and  it  was 
all  for  you,  —  for  those  whom  he  had  been  used  to 
meet  in  the  intercourse  of  life.  For  them  he  was 
anxious  that  their  hearts  might  turn  to  God  ;  that 
religion  might  be  to  them  a  living  spirit,  and  not  a 
dead  letter.  For  he  feared,  —  he  was  oppressed  to 
think  that  some  had  no  more  feeling  than  he  once 


READY    TO    BE    OFFERED.  31 

had  of  the  truths  of  the  Gospel  ;  that  they  were  in 
the  way  that  seemeth  right,  though  the  end  of  it 
are  the  ways  of  death.  He  would  have  sent  an  af- 
fectionate message  to  you,  were  it  not  for  his  shrink- 
ing fear  of  display.  But  it  is  not  needed.  He  him- 
self is  come.  There  is  no  speech,  no  language  ; 
his  voice  is  not  heard ;  and  yet  \\e  speaks  to  you  from 
the  frozen  silence  of  death.  Let  your  hearts  listen  ; 
it  is  the  last  time. 

He  sent  no  message  ;  his  life,  he  said,  had  not 
been  such  as  gave  him  a  right  to  speak.  Did  not 
you  think  that  his.  life  was  virtuous  ?  Amiable  in 
all  his  feelings,  exemplary  in  all  his  conduct,  did  not 
you  think  that  he  was  always  prepared  to  die  ?  He 
thought  not  so.  When  his  heart  was  turned  to  God, 
he  saw  himself  differently ;  and  painfully  did  he  feel, 
that,  though  man  found  no  fault,  God  had  reason  to 
upbraid  him  ;  if  man's  claims  had  been  answered, 
God's  claims  were  immeasurably  greater,  and  those 
had  not  been  answered.  He  saw  the  hollowness  of 
that  virtue  which  leaves  God  and  eternity  out  of 
view  ;  he  knew  that,  while  the  hands  are  full  of 
earthly  cares,  man  cannot  work  out  his  salvation. 
"  I  have  lain  on  this  bed,"  he  said,  "  and  had  deep 
communion  with  God.  But,  O  this  body  of  sin  ! 
it  seems  too  great  to  be  forgiven.  But  the  blood  of 
Christ  cleanseth  from  all  sin  ;  on  that  I  build  my 
hope.  In  these  last  few  weeks,  heaven,  the  Lamb 
before  the  throne,  and  saints  and  angels  have  seemed 
very  near." 

When  he  seemed,  to  all  but  experienced  eyes,  to 


32  READY    TO    BE    OFFERED. 

be  gaining  strength,  when  his  friends  were  encour- 
aged, and  he  himself  hoped  that  he  might  be  spared 
a  little  longer,  the  prospect  was  suddenly  changed, — 
darkened  to  us,  but  not  to  him.  He  said  then,  —  "I 
see  my  spirit  must  depart,  and  I  lay  me  down  to  die, 
forgiving  all  who  have  injured  me  as  freely  as  I  hope 
to  be  forgiven." 

When  the  closing  scene  came  on,  and  his  frame 
was  torn  with  suffering,  the  voice  that  was  ever  dear- 
est to  him  said,  "  O  the  mortal  agony  of  this  hour  ! 
but  God  will  support  you."  He  said,  "  My  burden 
is  lifted;  God  and  Jesus  Christ  do  sustain  me."  His 
last  hours  were  spent  in  prayer  ;  and  thus,  meekly 
relying  on  the  support  which  never  fails,  he  was  per- 
mitted at  last  to  depart  in  peace. 
'  Again  I  say,  he  is  here,  —  come  to  warn  you 
against  trusting  to  the  present  world.  It  can  afford 
you  nothing,  for  it  has  nothing  which  will  stand 
under  the  shadow  of  death.  Nothing  but  a  living 
faith,  nothing  but  a  faith  which  sees  God  and  eter- 
nity as  realities,  can  support  you  in  that  awful  hour. 
And  now  he  implores  you  to  live  so  that  you  may 
meet  him  again.  Do  not  say  to  him,  "  Farewell  for 
ever  !  "  When  he  goes  to  his  wintry  grave,  "  enter 
thou  into  thy  chambers,  and  shut  the  doors  about 
thee."     Open  your  hearts  to  God. 

Let  me  ask  you  now,  which  is  the  living,  and 
which  is  the  dead  ?  They  are  not  dead  to  whom 
Jesus  is  the  resurrection  and  the  life.  They  are  not 
dead  who  are  alive  for  evermore.  They  whose 
mortal  hath  put  on  immortality  need  not.  your  tears. 


READY    TO    BE    OFFERED.  33 

Why  weep  for  those  who  are  happy  in  the  mansions 
of  the  blest  ? 

The  dead  are  they  who  are  enslaved  to  the  pres- 
ent world.  "  She  that  liveth  in  pleasure  is  dead." 
He  that  liveth  in  worldliness  is  dead.  They  are  the 
ones  to  mourn  for.  Bitter  tears  may  be  shed  for 
them.  But  sorrow  is  not  for  the  happy.  Tears  are 
not  for  the  blest. 


SERMON    IV.* 


GROUNDS   AND   LIMITATIONS   OF  HUMAN 
RESPONSIBILITY. 

THE    LOT    IS    CAST    INTO     THE    LAP  ;     BUT     THE    WJiOLE     DISPOSING 

thereof  is  of  the  lord.  —  Proverbs  xvi.  33. 

There  were  cases  occasionally  in  the  Old  Testa- 
ment history,  when  the  Hebrews  were  permitted  to 
resort  to  the  lot ;  as,  for  example,  in  dividing  the 
promised  land  among  the  tribes.  The  lots  were 
thrown  into  the  bosom  of  one  present,  who  hid  them 
in  the  fold  of  his  garment,  from  which  they  were 
afterwards  drawn.  In  this,  they  considered  them- 
selves as  leaving  it  to  chance  to  determine  ;  but  not 
so  the  sacred  writer;  it  was  Divine  Providence  which 
determined.  "  The  whole  disposing  thereof  is  of 
the  Lord  "  ;  there  is  no  such  thing  as  chance.  Since, 
then,  there  is  no  such  power  as  chance,  since  it  is  a 
mistake  to  say  that  any  thing  ever  happens,  or  to 
speak  of  any  thing  as  accidental,  —  language  which, 
however  common,   gives  wrong  impressions  of  our 


*  This  discourse  was  occasioned  by  a  "shocking  accident,"  as  it 
was  called  in  the  newspapers,  which  occurred  on  the  Western  Rail- 
road, December  18,  1840,  by  which  four  lives  were  lost. 


LIMITATIONS    OF     RESPONSIBILITY.  6b 

condition  in  this  world, — it  follows  that  all  things 
which  take  place  must  be  owing  either  to  God  or 
man,  are  brought  about  by  Divine  or  human  agency. 
We  will  begin  by  attempting  to  define  the  prov- 
inces of  human  and  Divine  agency.  Our  duty  is 
commensurate  with  our  power.  We  are  responsible 
for  the  moral  character  of  what(  is  done,  just  so  far 
as  it  depends  on  ourselves.  God  does  not  deal  with 
mankind  as  with  other  animals.  They  have  action, 
but  no  moral  action  ;  because  they  have  not  power 
to  foresee  the  consequences  of  what  they  do,  nor  a 
power  to  discern  between  right  and  wrong.  The 
few  cases  in  which  they  betray  fear  after  having 
done  wrong  are  to  be  explained  by  supposing  that 
they  have  associated  such  actions  with  suffering,  the 
fear  of  being  punished,  thus  occasioned,  leading  to 
that  manner  which  is  sometimes  thought  to  express 
penitence  and  shame.  But  with  man  it  is  not  so, 
who  not  only  has  a  moral  and  a  spiritual  nature  by 
which  he  can  understand  his  God  and  his  duty,  but 
also  a  power  to  do  or  not  to  do,  to  choose  or  to  re- 
fuse, which  is  not  given  to  other  created  things. 
Within  that  circle,  then,  where  man  has  this  power 
to  will  and  to  do  of  his  own  pleasure,  is  the  field  of 
human  agency.  Here  man  is  held  responsible  ;  he 
is  bound  to  look  about  him  and  before  him,  to  reflect 
seriously  on  the  motives  and  consequences  of  his 
actions,  to  hold  his  thoughts,  feelings,  and  actions  in 
the  light  of  conscience,  that  he  may  see  how  his 
acting  or  his  neglecting  to  act  will  affect  the  beings 
around  him,  how  it  will  appear  in  the  sight  of  God, 


36  LIMITATIONS    OF    KESPONSIBILITY. 

to  whom  he  must  answer,  and  what  bearing  it  will 
have  on  his  own  character  and  destiny. 

All  beyond  this  province  of  human  responsibility 
is  done  by  the  power  of  God.  Since  he  is  every- 
where present,  with  a  never-sleeping  providence, 
guiding  the  operation  of  all  created  things,  we  know 
that  every  thing,  except  what  he  has  intrusted  man 
with  power  to  do,  is  done  by  him.  When  we  speak 
of  the  strange  and  mysterious  instinct  of  animals,  of 
the  sureness  and  certainty  of  its  operation,  —  of  the 
bird  finding  its  path  over  untravelled  shores  and 
oceans,  or  the  beast,  when  transported  to  a  distance, 
returning  straightway  to  his  home,  and  thus  doing 
what  transcends  the  power  of  man,  —  we  need  not 
wonder  ;  for  it  is  all  done  by  the  agency  of  God. 
It  directs  and  manages  all  things  which  man's  intel- 
ligence and  power  cannot  reach,  and  over  the  actions 
of  man  himself  it  exerts  a  superintending  care,  never 
interfering  with  the  freedom  of  his  agency,  never 
preventing  the  consequences  of  his  neglect  or  his 
action,  so  far  as  respects  the  agent  himself,  but  pre- 
venting the  injury  which  his  action  or  neglect  might 
occasion  to  others,  and  thus  bringing  good  in  the 
end  out  of  that  chaos  and  confusion  of  evil  which 
men  are  constantly  doing,  so  as  to  make  them  all 
blessings  in  the  result  to  the  human  race.  Mean- 
while the  individual  agent  is  held  fast  to  his  respon- 
sibility, obliged  to  eat  the  fruit  of  his  own  doings, 
and  suffered,  if  he  will,  to  abuse  his  privilege  of  free- 
dom, which  otherwise  would  not  be  either  a  priv- 
ilege or  freedom,  to  the  injury  and  ruin  of  his  soul. 


LIMITATIONS    OF    RESPONSIBILITY.  37 

This  thought  of  Divine  Providence,  ever  superin- 
tending the  great  interests  of  mankind,  ever  caring 
for  his  children,  is  the  most  consoling  and  inspiring 
that  ever  visits  the  heart,  though  it  cannot  give  joy 
to  the  heart  where  it  is  not  welcomed.  It  is  delight- 
ful, when  you  wake  at  deep  midnight,  to  think  of 
Him  who  watches  while  you  are  sleeping,  and  keeps 
the  vast  and  silent  spheres  wheeling  in  their  order 
above  your  guarded  head.  Still  more,  to  think  that 
the  spirit  of  God  is  over  this  world's  troubled  waters, 
on  which  we  are  all  embarked  for  immortality,  — that 
his  eye  follows  us  in  these  unsounded  seas,  and  that 
when  the  waves  rise  or  fall  they  obey  his  voice  of 
mercy, — this  thought  blends  the  glory  of  our  moral 
freedom  with  a  sense  of  our  dependence  on  a  Fa- 
ther's power  and  love,  in  such  a  manner  as  to  call 
out  the  energies,  to  silence  the  fears,  and  to  give  the 
peace  of  living  action,  not  of  indifference  nor  of 
death,  to  the  soul. 

Having  thus  stated  and  attempted  to  define  the 
provinces  of  Divine  and  human  agency,  I  would  next 
ask  you  to  consider  how  our  knowledge  of  them  is 
constantly  extending.  With  respect  to  human  agen- 
cy, for  example,  we  are  continually  opening  upon 
new  views,  which  show  us  that  many  things  which 
are  called  acts  of  God  come  within  the  sphere  of 
our  own  responsibility,  and  are  in  truth  our  own 
actions,  springing  from  our  own  doing  or  our  own 
neglect  ;  and  the  consequences  of  them  we  must 
expect  to  bear.  How  often  have  we  seen  the  poor 
invalid  on  his  bed  of  anguish,  endeavouring  to  still 
4 


38  LIMITATIONS    OF    RESPONSIBILITY. 

his  troubled  nerves  to  repose,  that  he  may  learn  the 
lesson  of  submission  to  what  he  deems  the  will  of 
God,  when  we  cannot  but  remember  his  own  care- 
less exposure,  his  own  unnatural  habit  of  living,  his 
own  contemptuous  neglect  of  the  beginnings  of  dis- 
ease, and  we  say  to  ourselves,  if  not  to  him,  that  it  is 
his  own  doing  which  has  brought  him  to  the  brink  of 
an  untimely  grave  !  Many  cases  there  are  in  which 
we  cannot  trace  home  the  event  to  human  agency, 
or  rather  to  the  men  who  caused  it,  while  the  con- 
nection between  the  two  is  clear  to  the  eye  of  God. 
For  example,  some  unprincipled  builder  in  the  hur- 
ried city,  for  the  sake  of  gain,  puts  up  a  house  too 
weak  to  stand.  When  it  falls,  and  crushes  the  inno- 
cent beneath  it,  he  may  call  it  the  act  of  Providence 
if  he  will  ;  but  it  was  his  own,  —  and  he  will  find 
it  darkly  recorded  against  him  at  the  judgment  of 
the  great  day. 

But  never  has  this  province  of  human  agency 
been  so  much  extended  to  human  apprehension,  as 
in  connection  with  those  arts  and  improvements  of 
civil  life  which  have  invested  man  with  new  pow- 
ers, and  given  him  a  mastery  over  nature  which  in 
former  days  he  never  dreamed  of  possessing.  He 
would  as  soon  have  thought  of  guiding  the  stars  in 
their  courses,  as  of  conducting  chariots  that  outstrip 
the  winds,  vessels  which  ask  no  aid  from  the  out- 
ward elements  to  bear  them  on  their  way.  This 
same  development  of  power  opens  new  fields  of  re- 
sponsibility ;  for  it  is  enough  to  make  men  thought- 
ful when  the  lives  of  thousands  are  at  the  mercy  of 


LIMITATIONS    OF    RESPONSIBILITY.  39 

one.  Where  the  conscience  has  not  lost  all  power 
by  disuse  and  inaction,  the  person  to  whom  the  lives 
of  others  are  largely  intrusted  will  feel  the  great- 
ness of  the  charge,  and  the  solemnity  of  his  obliga- 
tion. And  if  the  manager  of  one  of  these  vessels, 
in  foolish  and  desperate  rivalship  with  another,  dis- 
regards the  danger,  and  hazards  the  safety  and  hap- 
piness of  thousands  to  gratify  his  own  childish  pas- 
sion, when  the  explosion  takes  place,  and  the  deck 
bleeds  with  mangled  ruins,  and  one  electric  shock  of 
agony  is  sent  to  hearts  and  habitations  more  than  can 
be  numbered,  let  him  not  doubt  that  he  shall  be  ac- 
cused before  God  as  the  author  of  that  world  of  woe. 
Yes,  and  should  they  pass  safely  through  the  danger, 
no  thanks  to  him  ;  his  guilt  is  the  same  in  the  sight 
of  God.  So  if  the  proprietors  of  such  a  vessel,  in 
their  thirst  of  gain,  set  at  naught  their  obligations, 
and  send  out  hundreds  on  the  deck  which  there  is 
reason  to  fear  may  become  their  funeral  pile,  the 
conflagration  on  the  midnight  sea,  the  wild  cry  of 
agony  sent  over  the  waters,  and  the  bitter  tears  of 
unknown  and  unnumbered  mourners,  are  so  many 
witnesses  against  them.  And  if  they  say  that  they 
did  not  think  of  this  result,  tell  them  it  was  their 
crime  that  they  did  not  think  of  it,  —  that  they 
thought  of  nothing  but  their  own  gain,  when  duties 
and  dangers  should  have  been  first  regarded.  When 
such  things  are,  no  matter  how  stern  and  general  the 
voice  of  condemnation  ;  but  do  not  confound  with 
such  examples  that  of  those  who  have  no  motive  of 
interest  or  passion  to  expose  others  to  danger,  who 


40  LIMITATIONS    OF    RESPONSIBILITY. 

have  much  to  lose  and  nothing  to  gain  by  such  ex- 
posure, who  indeed  are  themselves  as  much  en- 
dangered in  life,  and  more  in  reputation,  than  any 
who  suffer  by  them  ;  for  there  may  be  error  in  judg- 
ment, without  guilt,  and  if  they  acted  according  to 
their  best  judgment  under  the  circumstances,  their 
conscience  is  clear  of  blood.  Where  the  disaster  is 
owing  to  circumstances  which  no  ordinary  prudence 
could  foresee,  —  in  a  word,  where  they  have  done 
their  best,  —  the  action  is  not  their  own,  and  the 
responsibility  is  lifted  from  their  soul. 

But  some  may  ask,  "  When  the  province  of  hu- 
man agency  is  thus  extended,  is  not  the  sphere  of 
Divine  Providence  lessened  ?  Shall  we  not  feel  as  if 
God  had  less  to  do  with  human  affairs,  and  will  it 
hot  lessen  that  feeling  of  dependence  on  him,  which 
ought  to  be  much  greater  rather  than  less  ?  "  On  the 
contrary,  the  more  we  feel  our  own  responsibility, 
the  more  shall  we  recognize  the  agency  of  Heaven 
in  all  things.  For  in  your  own  experience  you  may 
observe  the  reciprocal  action  of  these  two  principles : 
those  who  think  most  of  Heaven,  and  see  the  hand 
of  Providence  in  all  things,  are  most  alive  to  their 
own  accountability  ;  and  they  who  feel  most  deeply 
the  magnitude  and  importance  of  their  duties  are 
the  readiest  to  understand  how  much  they  depend 
upon  their  God.  So  that  all  these  advances  in  hu- 
man knowledge,  all  this  extension  of  the  bounds  of 
human  power,  carry  up  the  thoughts  to  Him  whose 
inspirations  are  the  fountains  of  all  knowledge,  and 
enlarge  our  conceptions  of  his  providence,  which 
intrusts  these  powers  to  our  hands. 


LIMITATIONS    OF    RESPONSIBILITY.  41 

I  now  come  to  the  subject  of  our  duty  in  relation 
to  this  power  which  God  has  given  us  in  charge. 
Here  I  would  observe,  that,  from  what  we  know  of 
Divine  Providence,  we  may  learn  how  to  use  and 
improve  that  human  providence  which  brings  us  into 
our  nearest  resemblance  to  God.  When  it  is  said 
that  man  was  made  in  God's  image,  and  had  dominion 
committed  to  him  over  other  works  of  God,  it  must 
be  remembered  that  the  image  is  but  imperfect,  far 
off,  and  dim  at  first,  and  it  must  be  our  own  care  to 
make  the  likeness  greater  than  it  is  in  the  beginning. 
For  this  purpose  Jesus  Christ  has  made  us  acquainted 
with  the  Father  in  and  through  himself,  and  set  him 
before  us  as  an  example  ;  but  so  neglected  is  the 
privilege,  that  thousands  lose  all  traces  of  divine 
original  in  the  defacing  stain  of  this  world's  corrup- 
tions. Still,  this  is  our  work  and  our  glory,  —  to  be 
as  much  as  possible  like  Him  who  was  entirely  like 
his  Father,  and,  by  cherishing  a  resemblance  to  our 
Master,  to  be  transformed  into  the  same  image,  — 
from  effort  to  effort  in  this  world,  from  glory  to  glory 
in  another. 

Now  what  is  it  we  adore  in  the  providence  of 
God  ?  Is  it  not  the  vast  reach  of  vision  and  design 
with  which  it  embraces  all  considerations  bearing  on 
its  action,  —  never  swayed,  as  man  is,  by  those  which 
are  near  and  pressing,  but  looking  to  the  last  as  well 
as  the  first,  the  distant  as  well  as  the  nigh,  —  never 
swayed  by  undue  partiality  or  aversion,  but  always 
steadfastly  regarding  and  pressing  on  to  that  which 
is  right  ?  And  more  than  all,  is  it  not  the  perfect 
4# 


42  LIMITATIONS    OF    RESPONSIBILITY. 

disinterestedness  of  Divine  Providence,  the  regard  to 
the  welfare  of  all,  which  sends  rain  and  sunshine 
alike  on  the  just  and  the  unjust,  the  thankless  as 
well  as  the  good  ? 

Here,  then,  we  see  straight  and  plain  before  us 
the  way  to  improve  our  own  moral  power,  —  by  en- 
deavouring, as  much  as  possible,  to  make  it  resemble 
the  providence  of  God.  That  is,  to  consider  all  the 
bearings  and  consequences  of  what  we  do  or  neglect 
to  do,  —  overlooking  selfish  inducements,  resisting 
temporary  influences  and  clamorous  passions,  and 
always  doing  that  which  under  the  circumstances, 
so  far  as  we  can  see  them,  our  deliberate  judgment 
approves  as  the  best  course  we  can  pursue.  We  are 
never  to  count  any  thing  which  concerns  our  duty 
'beneath  our  attention,  because  it  may  affect  others 
in  a  way  which  we  cannot  foresee  ;  and  if  not,  it 
will  still  concern  ourselves  to  do  the  best  we  are 
able,  and  in  the  best  manner  we  are  able,  since  there 
is  a  day  when  our  actions,  and  the  character  and 
consequences  of  our  actions,  will  pass  before  us  in 
stern  and  fearful  review.  And  we  must  remember 
that  we  cannot  do  the  best  thing  in  the  best  way, 
unless  we  imitate  the  providence  of  God  in  acting 
with  regard  to  the  right  rather  than  with  regard  to 
ourselves,  —  never  suffering  our  sordid  interests,  our 
malicious  feelings,  or  our  ungoverned  passions  to 
darken  the  clearness  of  our  judgment,  and  turn  us 
aside  from  the  course  which  duty  would  have  us 
pursue.  If  we  do  this  as  far  as  possible,  we  shall 
find  that  it  will  give  us  a  wise  forecast  in  the  con- 


LIMITATIONS    OF    RESPONSIBILITY.  43 

duct  of  our  lives  ;  saving  us  from  many  an  error, 
and  saving  others  from  the  consequences  of.  our 
errors ;  and,  whether  in  our  daily  employments  or  on 
great  and  trying  occasions,  will  give  us  power  to 
maintain  the  bearing  of  children  of  God. 

I  will,  however,  detain  you  no  longer  with  this 
discussion,  though  all  I  have  said  applies  to  the 
subject  which  I  intended  to  'bring  before  you  ;  I 
mean  the  calamity  which  lately  overcame  us  like 
a  summer  cloud,  filling  every  heart  with  sorrow  and 
spreading  gloom  on  every  brow.  These  things  are 
painfully  familiar  in  some  parts  of  our  country  ;  but 
so  unusual  here,  that  they  are  more  terrible  when 
they  come.  And  is  it  not  a  subject  of  gratitude  and 
of  wonder  that  a  gigantic  undertaking  has  been  com- 
pleted, and  gigantic  powers  been  put  in  successful 
action,  and  that  so  few  in  our  community  can  say 
that  they  have  suffered  in  person,  in  circumstances, 
or  in  heart  ? 

Was  this  disaster  to  be  ascribed  to  Divine  or  hu- 
man agency  ?  One  or  the  other  must  have  occa- 
sioned it,  for  chance  is  a  name  for  that  which  has  no 
existence.  To  call  it  accidental  is  only  saying  that 
we  cannot  determine  whether  it  comes  within  the 
circle  of  human  responsibility,  or  whether  it  should 
be  regarded  as  an  act  of  God.  We  can  only  tell 
where  to  assign  it  by  deciding  another  question ;  and 
that  is,  whether  ordinary  foresight  could  have  fore- 
seen and  prevented  it.  If  so,  man  was  responsible 
for  it ;  but  otherwise  it  is  to  be  regarded  as  an  act 
of  God.     Had  any  one  concerned  in  it  neglected 


44  LIMITATIONS    OF    RESPONSIBILITY. 

reasonable  precautions,  encountering  danger  for  the 
sake  of  gain  or  display,  —  had  he  tampered  with 
powers  that  never  had  been  tested,  and  made  bold 
and  rash  experiments,  doubtful  beforehand  whether 
they  would  succeed, — carelessness  would  have  been  a 
crime,  because  caution  was  a  duty,  and  each  one  so 
offending  would  be  answerable  for  that  which,  with 
common  prudence,  he  might  have  prevented,  as  well 
as  for  that  which  he  has  done.  But  if  the  calcula- 
tions of  science  gave  them  confidence  in  their  power 
to  descend  the  steep  with  safety,  if  former  experi- 
ence of  that  power  strengthened  them  in -the  opinion 
that  it  could  be  done  without  danger,  if  all  the 
danger  apprehended  was  from  the  effect  of  gravita- 
tion, and  they  believed  themselves  provided  with  a 
force  more  than  competent  to  resist  it,  still  more,  if 
the  frost  upon  their  slippery  path  unexpectedly  coun- 
teracted the  effects  of  their  engine  and  left  the  vast 
weight  helpless  on  the  descending  steep,  —  in  a 
word,  if  man  did  what  could  be  reasonably  expected 
of  him  to  anticipate  and  avoid  all  danger,  the  disas- 
ter came  not  within  the  sphere  of  human  responsi- 
bility. Their  conscience  need  not  be  burdened  ; 
the  blood  of  the  sufferers  will  not  be  required  at 
their  hands.  This,  then,  is  the  result  :  if  human 
prudence,  in  its  ordinary  action,  could  be  expected 
to  foresee  and  prevent  a  disaster,  it  is  the  work  of 
man  ;  otherwise,  it  must  be  ascribed  to  the  prov- 
idence of  God. 

If  the  question  be  asked  in  reference  to  the  suffer- 
ers, whether  it  was  the  act  of  man  or  of  God,  I  an- 


LIMITATIONS    OF    RESPONSIBILITY.  45 

swer  at  once,  it  was  the  act  of  God.  He  does  not 
abridge  our  freedom  ;  he  suffers  us  to  do  or  neglect 
to  do,  and  leaves  us  to  bear  the  consequences  our- 
selves ;  but  at  the  same  time  he  takes  care  that,  so 
far  as  respects  others,  the  wrath  or  folly,  the  care- 
lessness or  madness,  of  men  shall  do  nothing  more 
than  work  out  the  purposes  of  the  Most  High.  In 
any  one  of  those  dark  deeds  with  which  our  public 
prints  are  blackened  over,  the  murder  was  the  vol- 
untary act  of  man  ;  so  far  as  the  murderer  was  con- 
cerned it  was  human  agency,  to  be  answered  for  here 
and  hereafter  as  a  wilful  and  deadly  sin.  But  that 
high  Providence,  which  cares  for  all  the  living,  did 
not  suffer  the  welfare  of  the  murdered  to  be  injuri- 
ously affected  by  the  action  of  another ;  he  was  per- 
mitted to  suffer,  because  in  the  book  of  Providence 
it  was  written  that  this  was  the  best  time  for  him  to 
die.  And  so  I  say  with  reference  to  those  who  have 
so  lately  fallen  ;  it  seems  mysterious,  indeed,  that, 
when  their  lives  were  so  important,  they  should  have 
been  taken  from  their  desolate  wives  and  children. 
How  often  have  we  heard  it  lamented  that  the 
weight  of  the  ungovernable  train  did  not  fall  harm- 
lessly into  the  waters !  But  no ;  let  us  remember, 
that  from  the  moment  when  it  burst  through  all  hu- 
man control,  and  came  thundering  down  the  steep,  it 
was  God's  providence  that  determined  where  the  blow 
should  fall.  Had  it  been,  as  no  one  believes,  the 
most  wanton  rashness  which  brought  it  thus  head- 
long, —  yes,  had  it  been  wilful  design  which  sent  it 
down  to  mangle  and  destroy,  — even  then  it  would 


46  LIMITATIONS    OF    RESPONSIBILITY. 

be  true  that  He,  without  whom  not  a  sparrow  falls, 
permitted  it  to  crush  the  innocent,  —  not  because 
they  deserved  to  suffer,  not  in  wrath  nor  in  ven- 
geance, —  but  for  the  single  reason,  that  their  hour 
was  come.  The  time,  the  place,  and  the  manner  of 
their  departure  were  ordered  by  the  God  of  love. 

But  the  question  of  most  importance  is,  In  what 
light  are  these  disasters  themselves  to  be  regarded  ? 
And  in  respect  to  human  agency  they  should  un- 
doubtedly be  used  to  learn  that  needful  forecast  in  the 
employment  of  mighty  powers,  which  nothing  but 
experience  —  I  may  say  sad  and  sorrowful  experi- 
ence—  can  give.  When  the  evil  has  taken  place,  we 
can  all  see  that  there  was  danger.  But  was  this  dan- 
ger distinctly  predicted  by  any  one  before.  Wise 
cautions  were  given  by  some  who  must  now  rejoice 
that  they  gave  them  ;  but  with  a  force  of  more  than 
two  to  one  to  resist  the  effect  of  gravitation,  would 
any  one  have  said  beforehand  that  wheels  would  be 
palsied  in  their  action,  and  levers  lose  their  foothold, 
and  the  weight  roll  helplessly  down  the  steeps  which 
it  found  no  difficulty  in  ascending  ?  Here,  then,  the 
bounds  of  human  forecast  are  extended  by  a  fearful 
warning;  and  that  warning  may  be  the  means  of  sav- 
ing many  a  life  hereafter  from  a  danger  which  other- 
wise would  not  have  been  understood.  It  is  well, 
then,  that  we  are  sometimes  taught  that  our  power  is 
less  than  we  suppose,  and  our  responsibility  greater  ; 
and  the  warning  is  written  in  blood,  because  all  expe- 
rience must  be  gained  at  startling  prices,  and  unless 
the  warning  is  solemn  its  effect  will  pass  away. 


LIMITATIONS    OF    RESPONSIBILITY.  47 

Once  more,  these  calamities  should  impress  our 
hearts  with  an  overwhelming  sense  of  the  power 
and  providence  of  God.  We  should  reverse  the 
wheels  of  our  enterprise  for  a  moment,  and  consider 
our  relation  to  the  Most  High  ;  for  power  without  the 
sense  of  responsibility  is  a  fatal  gift  to  man.  If  we 
see  a  man  of  great  intellectual  power  destitute  of  all 
moral  elevation,  he  seems  unnatural  ;  we  cannot  de- 
spise, indeed,  but  we  cannot  reverence  him  ;  we  re- 
gard him  with  wonder  and  pain.  And  so  if  a  com- 
munity, highly  intelligent  and  highly  favored,  forget 
the  source  of  power  and  blessing,  they  show  them- 
selves unworthy  of  their  privilege  ;  they  are  in  dan- 
ger of  losing  it ;  for  He  who  sitteth  in  the  heaven 
may  dash  them  down  from  that  elevation  when  they 
think  themselves  triumphantly  ascending,  and  strew 
them  in  broken  and  hopeless  ruin  below.  He  has 
but  to  send  his  lightning,  and  the  iron  bands  of  their 
communication  will  shrivel  like  a  burning  thread, 
the  improvements  of  life  will  disappear,  the  rose- 
garden  will  relapse  into  a  wilderness,  and  the  ancient 
woods  and  waters  will  possess  their  own  again. 

In  all  thy  ways,  then,  acknowledge  Him,  and  He 
will  direct  thy  paths.  In  the  confidence  of  human 
agency,  never  forget,  that,  "  except  the  Lord  build 
the  house,  they  labor  in  vain  who  build  it."  In 
every  enterprise,  in  every  endeavour,  remember  that 
it  is  the  first  dictate  of  wisdom  to  turn  unto  God. 


SERMON  V. 


CHRISTIAN  FORBEARANCE. 

THEN   CAME   PETER    TO   HIM   AND   SAID,    LORD,   HOW   OFT   SHALL   MY 
BROTHER    SIN     AGAINST    ME    AND    I    FORGIVE    HIM?        TILL    SEVEN 

times  ?  —  Matthew  xviii.  21. 

This  question,  taken  in  connection  with  the  reply, 
is  the  more  instructive,  because  it  was  proposed  by 
a  person  of  great  generosity  of  feeling  ;  who  was 
ardent,  but  always  ready  for  reconciliation,  impetuous 
to  hurry  into  wrath,  but  equally  swift  to  repent  and 
forgive.  Knowing  his  Master's  feelings  and  princi- 
ples, he  evidently  thinks  that  a  great  effort  will  be 
required  of  his  followers,  and  he  evidently  thinks 
that  it  would  be  a  great  effort  to  forgive  an  injury 
seven  times  repeated.  And  this  is  true.  Still  it  is 
not  all  that  the  Saviour  requires,  not  all  that  he 
himself  would  do.  It  is  plain  that  he  had  in  his 
mind  a  measure  of  the  duty  of  Christian  love,  car- 
ried as  far  as  he  then  thought  it  could  be  carried. 
He  placed  his  mark  on  the  outmost  bounds  of  what 
he  considered  the  reach  of  human  attainment.  The 
farthest  flight  of  human  generosity  and  kindness 
which  he  could  imagine  was  that  of  seven  times  for- 


CHRISTIAN    FORBEARANCE.  49 

giving  the  seven  times  repeated  wrong.  How  much 
he  must  have  been  astonished  at  his  Master's  reply, 
—  "I  say  not  unto  thee  until  seven  times,  but  until 
seventy  times  seven  "  !  —  that  is,  about  five  hundred 
times  as  far  as  he  thought  it  possible  for  human 
kindness  and  generosity  to  go. 

Now  the  moral  of  this  short  and  striking  story  is 
this.  Every  one,  like  the  Apostle,  has  in  his  own 
mind  a  measure  of  Christian  love  in  what  he  thinks 
is  its  full  extent;  —  not  always  very  definite,  but  still 
there  is  a  sort  of  boundary  in  his  mind  beyond  which 
he  thinks  it  cannot  be  expected  to  pass.  It  is  his 
mark.  It  is  the  point  to  which  he  thinks  it  reason- 
able that  the  duty  should  be  carried,  —  or,  what  is 
the  same  thing,  to  which  he  thinks  that  he  should 
be  willing  to  go.  And  thus  he  assumes  that  the 
mind  of  God  is  the  same  with  his  own.  Instead  of 
saying,  as  St.  Paul  did,  "  We  have  the  mind  of 
Christ."  and  consulting  that  oracle  without  regard  to 
any  other,  he  takes  it  for  granted  that  his  own  nat- 
ural feelings  are  always  to  be  trusted,  though  they 
were  formed  and  came  into  his  heart  he  knows  not 
when  nor  how.  The  Indians,  when  they  can  count 
to  six,  believe  that  numeration  can  go  no  farther  ; 
and  thus,  in  morals  and  religion,  we  make  our  own 
attainment  the  measure  of  what  man  can  do.  One 
is  not  less  unreasonable  than  the  other.  For  as 
Newton  and  Laplace  extended  the  power  of  num- 
bers immeasurably  farther  than  the  unenlightened 
could  follow,  one  Christian  may  have  enlarged  ideas 
of  religious  duty,  which  another,  so  far  from  attain- 
5 


50  CHRISTIAN    FORBEARANCE. 

ing,  is  not  yet  able  to  understand.  The  truth  is,  no 
one  knows  what  he  can  do.  No  one  is  able  to  fix 
the  boundaries  of  his  own  power,  or,  what  is  the 
same  thing,  of  his  obligations  which  are  commen- 
surate with  his  power.  None,  save  He  who  knows 
what  is  in  man,  can  be  an  authority  here  ;  for  that 
man  does  not  know  what  is  in  himself  is  taught  us 
by  the  experience  of  almost  every  day. 

But  there  are  some  considerations  worth  regarding, 
which  may  show  us  that  forgiveness,  forbearance, 
and  kindness  may  be  carried  farther  than  we  now 
think  possible,  —  more  than  seven  times  farther  than 
we  carry  them  now.  To  a  few  of  these  I  will  ask 
your  attention. 

First.  It  is  certain,  that,  if  our  kindness  is  limited 
and  partial,  there  must  be  something  in  us  which 
prevents  its  growing  and  extending.  What  is  it  ? 
There  is  nothing  in  our  nature  which  says  to  our 
generosity  or  forbearance,  "  Hitherto  shalt  thou 
come,  and  no  farther."  Therefore  it  must  be  some- 
thing in  our  acquired  feelings,  —  in  the  passions 
which  have  sprung  up  in  our  communication  with 
the  world.  There  are  some  individuals  who  have 
excited  in  us  feelings  of  distaste,  perhaps  aversion, 
which  we  think  it  impossible  to  overcome.  Cer- 
tainly this  is  a  disadvantage,  and  one  not  likely  to 
be  overcome  without  effort  and  care.  It  is  compar- 
atively easy  to  keep  the  garden  clear  from  weeds  if 
they  are  not  permitted  to  grow;  but  when  they  have 
once  struck  their  roots  deep  beneath  the  surface,  it 
is  not  easy  by  direct  effort  to  dislodge  them.     What 


CHRISTIAN    FORBEARANCE.  51 

then  can  be  done  ?  Carefully  prevent  their  rising  ; 
cut  off  every  sign  of  their  growth  as  fast  as  it  ap- 
pears ;  and  if  the  leaves  are  thus  suppressed,  the 
roots  will  be  sure  to  die.  The  same  is  also  to  be 
said  of  the  wild  growth  of  unkind  feelings  in  the 
heart.  Suppress  their  manifestations,  and  the  feel- 
ings will  perish  after  a  time.  That  is,  if  you  do  it 
in  good  faith,  and  with  a  true  desire  to  get  rid  of 
those  feelings  which  are  the  outlaws  of  the  heart. 
The  effort  which  good-breeding  makes  to  appear 
kind  is  not  enough  ;  but  if,  from  a  real  principle  of 
kindness  and  self-improvement,  you  suppress  all  man- 
ifestations of  unkindness,  the  passions  from  which 
they  spring  will  perish  from  the  soul. 

Now  what  I  say  is  this  :  if  we  have  in  our  hearts 
any  feelings  of  dislike  to  others  which  have  gath- 
ered strength  by  indulgence,  we  cannot  judge  how 
far  the  kindness  of  one  who  has  destroyed  those 
feelings  in  his  heart  by  suppressing  them  can  go. 
It  can  go  farther  than  we  can  go  with  it ;  it  can  go 
farther  than  we  can  imagine  now.  It  is  said  that 
the  patient  faithfulness  of  Chinese  industry  has  ex- 
terminated the  roots  and  seeds  of  that  useless  and 
troublesome  vegetation  in  which  our  fields  abound ; 
and  the  result  is,  that  their  agriculture  has  a  richness 
and  abundance  unknown  and  unimagined  in  other 
lands.  So  must  it  be  with  labor  applied  to  the  heart. 
This  labor  is  applied  at  disadvantage  while  any  un- 
kind feeling,  cherished  and  defended,  usurps  the  place 
where  better  ones  might  grow.  O  if  the  heart  were 
free  !  if  it  could  once  brinsr  itself  into  that  state  of 


52  CHRISTIAN    FORBEARANCE. 

liberty  from  passion  wherewith  Christ  would  make 
it  free  !  If  you  say  it  cannot  be,  remember  that 
nothing  was  ever  yet  accomplished  by  despair.  The 
charge,  "  Love  your  enemies,"  contains  a  duty  that 
can  be  done  ;  —  not,  however,  by  one  who  intrench- 
es himself  in  his  unkind  feelings,  but  by  the  fol- 
lower of  his  Master  who  by  patient  labor  has  re- 
moved every  root  of  bitterness  from  his  heart. 

Again  :  they  who  doubt  whether  obedience  to  the 
command  which  enjoins  the  love  of  man  can  be  car- 
ried as  far  as  the  Saviour  would  have  it  go  are  not 
aware  what  facility  and  power  are  gained  by  the 
familiar  practice  of  religious  virtue.  In  every  thing 
else  it  is  evident  to  their  eyes.  They  see  the  ease 
and  grace  with  which  mechanical  movements  and 
physical  operations  are  conducted  by  those  who  have 
followed  them  for  years.  They  wonder  at  the  rapid 
grace  with  which  the  artisan  accomplishes  what 
would  be  impossible  to  unskilful  hands.  Nor  is  the 
admiration  less  when  we  behold  the  results  of  intel- 
lectual training,  by  which  calculations,  which  are  a 
mystery  to  the  uninitiated,  are  seen  through  with  a 
glance  like  the  eagle's  ;  by  which  thoughts  are 
arranged  and  marshalled  in  the  mind  at  the  slightest 
summons,  and  the  orator  makes  his  way  through  the 
most  difficult  subject  in  a  path  of  light,  as  the  ship 
seems  to  throw  fire  from  its  keel  in  the  midnight 
sea.  The  same  command  of  resources,  the  same 
readiness,  ease,  and  gracefulness  in  the  use  of  the 
spiritual  powers,  is  the  reward  of  those,  who,  as  the 
Apostle  says,  "  exercise  themselves  "  in  these  high 


CHRISTIAN    FORBEARANCE.  53 

endeavours.  Like  men  familiar  with  mountain  paths, 
they  move  with  careless  confidence  where  others 
would  think  it  impossible  to  tread. 

This  is  what  our  Saviour  alluded  to,  when  he  en- 
couraged those  who  took  up  his  burden  with  the 
hope  that  they  would  find  it  light.  He  knew,  and 
they  knew,  that  it  was  not  light  at  first  ;  but  each 
succeeding  effort  lessened  the  difficulty  ;  they  soon 
welcomed  that  which  at  first  they  shrank  from,  and 
at  last,  came  to  love  the  duty  which  at  first  was  a 
subject  of  dread.  The  conscience,  if  once  diso- 
beyed, —  how  hard  it  is  to  recover  our  sense  of  ob- 
ligation !  But  if  we  obey  it  faithfully,  the  next 
effort  is  more  easily  made;  the  difficulty  lessens  with 
each  succeeding  endeavour.  Thus  it  is  with  those 
who  determine  to  forgive  every  injury,  to  clear  their 
minds  of  every  resentful  feeling.  It  may  be  hard 
the  first  time,  —  but  the  seventh  time  it  is  compar- 
atively easy  ;  the  seventh  time,  one  faithfully  dis- 
posed begins  to  acquire  a  taste  for  the  duty,  and  long 
before  he  reaches  the  seventieth  effort  he  will  enjoy 
the  new  feelings  so  intensely,  that  nothing  would  per- 
suade him  to  return  to  his  indifference  and  hardness 
again.  And  so  with  the  affections.  Who,  but  those 
who  have  tasted  it,  can  tell  the  happiness  which 
their  familiar  exercise  bestows?  You  may  wake  the 
sleeper,  and  tell  him  what  joy  it  is  to  breathe  the 
fresh  air  of  the  morning,  and  to  see  the  daily  resur- 
rection of  the  sun  from  its  grave.  Should  you  per- 
suade him  to  go  forth,  he  will  wish  himself  back  in 
his  slumbers  ;  but  after  a  few  efforts  to  overcome  his 
5* 


54  CHRISTIAN    FORBEARANCE. 

first  distaste,  he  will  begin  to  enjoy  it  as  you  do, 
and  wonder  how  he  could  have  sacrificed  to  dulness 
and  inaction  the  best  and  brightest  hours  of  the  day. 
And  so  with  the  happiness  which  springs  from  re- 
ligions feelings,  —  no  one  can  understand  it  till  he 
has  at  least  tasted  and  seen  it  ;  nor  can  it  come  to 
him  in  fulness  of  joy  till  those  feelings  have  become 
familiar  inmates  of  the  breast. 

In  fine,  no  one  can  tell  what  advances  may  be 
made  in  kindness  and  good-will  to  others  by  one 
whose  object  it  is  to  divest  himself  of  selfish  feel- 
ings. All  men  are  selfish,  no  doubt  ;  but  there  is 
this  difference,  made  by  religious  principle  where  it 
exists.  Some  are  earnest  to  suppress  and  overcome 
those  selfish  feelings,  while  others  love  to  indulge 
them.  While  the  latter  talk  about  resisting  them, 
they  still  indulge  them,  either  from  the  feeling  that 
they  are  natural  and  may  be  innocently  indulged, — 
that  good-will  to  others  may  go  far  enough  without 
going  far,  —  or  from  reliance  on  those  barren  words 
and  feelings,  which,  like  sunset-light  on  windows, 
give  the  appearance  of  warmth  to  the  heart,  when 
all  is  cold  within.  These  two  classes  there  are. 
Now  our  Saviour  states  the  law  of  the  heart ;  it  can- 
not serve  two  masters.  If  its  general  direction  is  in 
favor  of  self-indulgence,  love  to  man  has  no  chance 
there.  The  banner  of  love  may  be  kept  flying  above 
it,  but  there  is  nothing  of  the  reality  below.  On  the 
other  hand,  if  a  Christian  really  makes  it  the  effort 
of  his  life  to  resist  his  own  selfishness,  he  will  be 
surprised  himself  and  he  will  surprise  others  by  the 


CHRISTIAN    FORBEARANCE.  55 

amount  of  service  which  he  can  render  to  God  and 
man,  and  still  more  by  the  ease,  and  joy,  and  grace 
with  which  it  is  rendered. 

I  have  made  these  suggestions,  and  many  more 
might  be  added,  showing  that  we  ought  never  to 
pronounce  upon  the  extent  of  a  Christian  obligation 
from  what  we  know  of  our.  own  disposition  and 
our  own  power.  It  is  a  common  delusion  to  think 
that  duty  goes  only  so  far  as  we  now  think  we  can 
go.  We  may  find  hereafter,  as  doubtless  the  Apos- 
tle did,  that  we  can  go  seventy  times  farther.  And 
not  only  so  ;  we  may  also  find  that  we  can  take  the 
seventieth  step  more  easily  than  the  seventh,  —  each 
succeeding  effort  being  less  than  the  former,  and 
the  way  of  duty  easier  to  tread,  though  it  spread 
out  immeasurably  far  before  us.  We  must  remem- 
ber, that  it  is  not  ours  to  say  what  duty  requires, 
nor  what  man  is  expected,  or  is  able,  to-  do.  For 
as  the  measures  of  length  were  preserved  in  the 
dimensions  of  the  stones  of  the  temple,  where  they 
could  be  invariably  ascertained  in  future  ages  as 
long  as  that  building  stood,  so  the  measures  of 
Christian  obligation  are  preserved,  and  can  be  seen, 
in  the  life  and  history  of  our  Lord.  We  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  metes  and  bounds  ;  we  have  only 
to  follow  him.  If  we  follow  him,  we  cannot  wan- 
der ;  and  the  only  way  in  which  we  can  be  sure 
of  going  far  enough  in  any  duty  is  to  follow  him 
faithfully  to  the  last,  —  to  follow  him  till  our  last 
step  sinks  in  the  grave. 


SERMON    VI. 


VISION  OF  GOD'S  THRONE. 

AND,  BEHOLD,  A  THRONE  WAS  SET  IN  HEAVEN,  AND  ONE  SAT  ON 

the  throne.  —  Revelation  iv.  2. 

We  can  see,  even  through  the  medium  of  a  mis- 
taken and  unfortunate  translation,  that  there  is  a 
wonderful  richness  and  magnificence  in  the  Apoca- 
lyptic vision,  —  particularly  in  its  representation  of 
the  Most  High.  Every  thing  in  it  is  either  dazzling 
or  shadowy  ;  there  is  no  clear  outline,  no  exactly 
discernible  form.  In  this  place  it  is  said  that  a 
throne  was  placed  in  heaven,  and  One,  it  is  not  said 
who,  sat  on  the  throne.  It  is  not  said  who,  be- 
cause there  is  no  distinct  image  before  the  writer's 
eye  ;  and  though  he  knows  who  it  must  be,  his  in- 
spiration faints  and  fears  to  tell.  But  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  thoughtful  reader  is  powerfully  excited, 
and  the  effect  is,  in  one  who  reflects,  to  turn  away 
his  contemplation  from  the  visible  glories  before  him 
to  those  moral  perfections,  which,  in  the  view  of  the 
angel,  are  infinitely  more  lovely  and  commanding 
than  can  be  represented  by  any  forms,  colors,  or  ra- 
diance such  as  delight  the  eye.     And  this  undoubt- 


vision  of  god's  throne.  57 

edly  was  meant  to  be  the  effect  of  every  thing  grand 
and  beautiful  in  the  visible  works  of  God.  Our  ad- 
miration of  them  does  not  answer  its  purpose,  unless 
it  aids  us  to  ascend  to  a  purer  sense  and  clearer  un- 
derstanding of  those  divine  glories  of  wisdom,  pow- 
er, and  love,  in  comparison  with  which  all  things 
seen  with  the  eye  are  but  dust  and  ashes.  Now  this 
is  my  purpose  in  asking  your  attention  to  this  strange 
and  splendid  vision,  —  that  we  may  learn  how  to  as- 
cend through  it,  and  above  it,  to  a  higher  and  nearer 
communion  with  Him  whom  no  eye  hath  seen  or 
can  see,  and  who,  after  all  the  pains  and  the  power 
with  which  he  is  thus  presented,  never  becomes  to 
us  "  our  Father,"  till  he  is  welcomed  and  has  his 
dwelling  in  the  heart. 

But  let  us  turn  to  the  vision,  for  I  wish  that  all 
may  observe  this  peculiarity  which  I  have  men- 
tioned, —  the  manner  in  which  it  eludes  the  eye,  and 
at  the  same  time  fills  it  with  glory.  As  in  the  dream 
of  Eliphaz,  it  stands  still,  but  we  cannot  discern  the 
form  of  it  ;  while  at  the  same  time  an  image  is  be- 
fore our  eyes.  The  One  who  sat  upon  the  throne  — 
that  is,  the  glory  that  surrounds  him  —  resembles  the 
jasper  and  sardine  or  carnelian ;  the  former  of  which 
is  of  various  and  dazzling  colors,  while  the  latter  in 
all  its  changes  retains  a  resemblance  to  flesh-color, 
which  doubtless  has  its  meaning  here,  by  which  it  is 
intended  that  there  was  something  which  gave  the 
impression  of  a  person  and  a  form  in  all  this  surpass- 
ing glory.  But  it  is  not  here  as  in  the  words  of 
the  modern  lyrist :  — 


58  vision  of  god's  throne. 

"  He  passed  the  bounds  of  naming  space, 
The  living  throne,  the  sapphire  blaze, 
Where  angels  tremble  as  they  gaze. 
He  saw,  and,  blasted  with  excess  of  light, 
Closed  his  eyes  in  endless  night." 

For  the  seer  of  the  Revelation,  more  in  the  spirit 
of  his  religion,  represents  the  fierce  brightness  as 
softened  down  into  the  rainbow,  —  the  sweet  sign  of 
mercy,  —  "  very  beautiful  in  the  brightness  thereof, 
compassing  the  heaven  with  a  glorious  circle  where 
the  hands  of  the  Most  High  have  bended  it  "  ;  and, 
with  yet  kinder  regard  for  human  weakness,  shaded 
with  the  emerald,  —  the  tender  green,  the  color  on 
which  every  eye  can  dwell  undazzled,  and  with  ever 
new  delight.  Before  him  spreads  out  the  pavement, 
resembling  a  crystal  sea ;  by  which  is  meant  the 
upper  surface  of  the  firmament,  of  which  the  lower, 
with  its  delicious  blue,  is  over  our  heads.  And  God 
is  represented  as  looking  down  from  his  throne 
through  this  transparent  ceiling  of  the  universe,  hav- 
ing all  the  sons  of  men,  and  all  that  passes  in  the 
earth  beneath  him,  at  once  in  full  and  perfect  view. 

Need  I  say  that  in  this  brilliant  presentment  of 
the  heavenly  glory  we  have  before  us  the  Christian's 
God  ?  for  while  the  intense  brightness,  the  uncertain 
form,  the  lightnings  and  thunders,  and  the  changing 
rays  of  fiery  light,  all  give  the  impression  that  it 
is  a  fearful  thing  to  fall  into  his  hand,  the  gentle 
rainbow  of  peace,  and  the  emerald  softness  in  which 
this  radiance  melts  away,  show  us  how  Christianity 
has  changed  this  contemplation  of  the  Highest ;  — 


vision  of  god's  throne.  59 

not  by  any  means  depriving  him  of  his  sterner  glo- 
ries, but  only  softening  them  to  the  eye,  or  rather  to 
the  heart,  in  such  a  manner  that  we  can  bear  the 
sight  which  was  impossible  before.  For  you  re- 
member that  the  Hebrews  at  Sinai  entreated  that  the 
word  might  never  be  spoken  to  them  again,  though 
it  was  a  word  of  favor  and  mercy.  Their  great 
leader  even  quaked  and  trembled  to  feel  himself  in 
presence  of  his  God,  while  the  humblest  follower  of 
Jesus  may  come  boldly  into  that  same  presence, 
with  sweet  confidence  in  the  place  of  shivering 
dread.  Surely  no  emblematical  representation  can 
be  imagined  which  should  set  before  us  with  more 
beauty  and  power  what  the  Saviour  has  done  to 
remove  the  terrors  of  the  Almighty,  and  to  turn  the 
hearts  of  his  children  to  their  kind  and  gracious  God. 
Again  :  the  heavenly  beings  who  are  seen  in  this 
vision,  surrounding  and  sustaining  the  throne  of  the 
Most  High,  are  presented  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
give  us  the  strongest  impression  of  angelical  excel- 
lence and  glory.  And  let  it  be  observed,  that  it  is 
only  an  impression  which  the  seer  intends  to  give,  — 
not  a  definite  and  exact  description.  There  is  no 
clear  outline  ;  on  the  contrary,  it  is  implied  through- 
out that  they  cannot  be  represented  with  precision  to 
human  view.  This  is  intimated  in  the  name  which 
he  gives  them ;  they  are  called  living  ones,  or  be- 
ings, —  a  general  and  purposely  undefined  expres- 
sion, which  our  translators  have  degraded,  profaned 
I  might  almost  say,  into  the  word  "  beasts,"  a  trans- 
lation of  the  original  term  which  is  strangely,  pain- 


60  vision  of  god's  throne. 

fully  untrue.  Nor  can  it  be  accounted  for  except 
from  what  the  Apostle  says  of  their  expression.  So 
far  as  they  are  bodied  forth,  they  are  graceful  and 
radiant  forms,  with  wings  to  represent  the  lightness 
and  rapidity  with  which  they  move  in  the  service  of 
their  God.  But  he  says  that  one  had  the  expression 
of  strength  and  majesty,  such  as  is  seen  in  the  lion  ; 
another,  of  patient  faithfulness,  of  which  the  ox  is 
the  sign  ;  another  had  the  look  of  human  intelli- 
gence, indicating  his  sympathy  with  mankind;  while 
yet  another  had  that  determined  gaze  with  which 
the  eagle  fronts  the  sun.  As  an  emblem  of  the 
lustre  that  surrounds  them,  it  is  said  that  they  were 
full  of  eyes ;  and  this  word,  as  the  Hebrew  scholar 
knows,  is  applied  not  only  to  the  organ  of  sight,  but 
to  the  bright  sparkling  point  in  the  precious  stone 
from  which  its  flashes  of  colored  light  stream  forth, 
giving  an  idea  of  the  animated  grace  and  airy  free- 
dom of  motion  by  which  this  radiance,  various  and 
ever  changing,  starts  out  with  each  movement  to  the 
gazer's  view.  These  "  beings,"  as  he  calls  them,  — 
for  he  knows  not  what  else  to  call  them,  since  they 
are  more  than  human,  yet  not  quite  divine, — are 
not  described  as  angels,  because  the  angels  are  those 
Avho  are  sent  to  accomplish  the  purposes  and  perform 
the  orders  of  their  God  ;  while  these  are  represented 
as  attendant  spirits,  always  near  his  throne,  always 
rejoicing  in  the  brightness  of  his  countenance,  always 
rendering  heartfelt  adoration  ;  for  it  is  said,  "  They 
rest  not  day  and  night,  saying,  Holy,  holy,  holy, 
Lord  God  Almighty,  which  was,  and  is,  and  is  to 
come." 


vision  of  god's  throne.  61 

Undefined  as  this  description  of  these  heavenly- 
beings  is  and  must  be,  nothing  could  give  us  a  finer 
impression  of  those  higher  orders  of  existence,  for 
such  undoubtedly  there  are,  which  have  not  needed 
to  come  into  this  lower  world  and  to  have  their  re- 
ligious character  formed  as  ours  must  be,  in  conflict 
with  the  sins  and  sorrows  of  the  present  state.  The 
taste  and  imagination  of  some  great  artists  have  dis- 
cerned what  our  translators  of  the  Scripture  failed  to 
see ;  and  they  have  represented  these  heavenly  beings 
with  many  of  the  traits  of  humanity,  but  none  of 
heaven,  —  with  feminine  delicacy  and  manly  strength 
and  freedom,  —  with  the  grace  of  youth  in  their 
forms,  but  the  wisdom  of  age  upon  their  thought- 
ful brows, — with  an  expression  of  thoughtful  sad- 
ness when  their  mission  brings  them  into  the  world 
to  witness  its  wretchedness  and  corruption,  but  joy- 
ful adoration,  unspeakable  and  full  of  glory,  when 
their  eye  turns  upward  to  heaven  and  to  God.  Now 
it  is  true  that  there  may  be  a  taste  of  this  kind,  and 
power  to  represent  these  things  vividly,  where  there 
is  no  true  religious  feeling  ;  but  it  is  also  true,  that 
something  is  gained  to  true  religious  feeling  by  sur- 
rounding all  sacred  subjects  with  images  of  beauty 
and  peace,  by  sweet  and  holy  associations.  For 
there  is  a  natural  alliance  between  that  which  is 
lovely,  and  that  which  is  true  and  heavenly  ;  and  it 
is  one  of  the  evils  of  this  strange  and  sorrowful 
world,  that  things  unworthy  are  disguised  in  raiment 
of  light,  while  religion  itself  is  too  often  profaned 
by  a  sincere,  but  most  unfit,  union  with  violence. 
6 


62  vision  or  god's  throne. 

narrowness,  and  bitter  feelings,  which  bring  it  down 
to  the  very  dust. 

But  we  must  look  through  the  visible  image  to 
what  it  represents  and  implies,  which  is,  that  the 
most  exalted  characters  and  powers  find  a  subject 
of  never-ceasing  interest  in  the  contemplation  of 
God.  They  are  never  weary  of  adoration.  By  day, 
and  all  the  day,  it  is  their  delight  to  engage  in  it, 
and  there  is  no  night  nor  slumber  there.  But  let  no 
one  take  the  impression,  that  life  in  heaven  is  spent 
in  offering  verbal  praise.  It  is  true  that  the  mouth 
speaks  from  the  overflow  of  the  heart',  and  if  the 
affections  are  interested  they  will  inspire  the  tongue  ; 
but  it  is  rather  the  language  of  the  life  which  is  here 
intended.  The  meaning  is,  that  the  various  pur- 
suits of  heaven  —  various  and  extended  as  they 
must  be  far  beyond  the  pursuits  of  this  narrow  and 
sensual  world  —  are  of  such  a  kind  as  to  make  man 
better  as  well  as  happier,  to  elevate  and  refine  his 
devotion,  to  open  his  mind  with  a  larger  understand- 
ing of  divine  excellence,  and  to  fill  his  heart  with 
purer  and  holier  love,  thus  showing  that  the  wor- 
ship of  the  soul,  which  is  the  duty  of  the  mortal,  is 
the  joy  of  the  immortal ;  and  that  in  the  same  pro- 
portion as  spiritual  beings,  whether  human  or  heav- 
enly, are  higher  exalted,  the  more  do  they  delight 
to  pour  themselves  out  in  grateful  and  adoring 
praise. 

But  the  part  of  this  wondrous  vision  which  is  of 
nearest  interest  to  ourselves  is  yet  to  come.  Around 
the  great  central  throne  were  other  thrones,  humbler, 


vision  of  god's  throne.  63 

and  yet  highly  exalted,  and  on  these  were  human 
forms,  —  persons  who  were  translated  to  these  high 
places  for  the  faithful  service  which  they  had  render- 
ed when  in  life  below.  "  Elders  "  they  are  called  ; 
but  the  name  has  reference  to  maturity  of  character 
rather  than  length  of  days  ;  for  in  the  estimation  of 
heaven,  "  honorable  age  is  not  that  which  standeth 
in  length  of  time,  nor  is  measured  by  number  of 
years  ;  but  wisdom  is  the  gray  hair  unto  men,  and 
an  unstained  life  is  old  age."  They  who  left  the 
world  in  youth,  and  they  who  died  infirm  with 
years,  are  alike  embraced  in  that  name,  and  placed 
equally  near  to  their  common  Father.  They  were 
dressed  in  white  robes,  and  there  were  golden  crowns 
upon  their  heads  ;  some  of  them  had  harps  in  their 
hands,  and  others  golden  censers,  from  which  fragrant 
clouds  of  incense  were  rolling  upward.  And  when 
they  saw  the  Son  of  God,  to  whom  they  were  indebt- 
ed for  heaven,  they  sang  the  new  song,  —  "  Thou 
art  worthy,  for  thou  wast  slain  and  hast  redeemed  us 
by  thy  blood  out  of  every  kindred,  and  tongue,  and 
people,  and  nation,  and  hast  made  us  kings  and 
priests  to  God."  Their  adoration  rises  yet  higher 
to  the  great  Source  of  all  blessing,  for  as  often  as 
those  mysterious  "  beings  "  give  glory,  honor,  and 
thanks  to  Him  upon  the  throne,  who  liveth  for  ever 
and  ever,  the  elders  cast  down  their  crowns  before 
him,  and  when  the  anthem  is  sung  by  all  the  bright 
armies  above,  —  "  Blessing,  and  honor,  and  glory,  and 
power  to  Him  that  sitteth  upon  the  throne  and  to 
the  Lamb,"  —  the  elders  fall  down  and  worship  Him 
that  liveth  for  ever  and  ever. 


64  vision  of  god's  throne. 

But,  amidst  all  this  magnificence  of  description,  we 
must  not  forget  that  this  is  but  the  outward  sign, 
the  visible  presentment,  of  a  spiritual  reality  far 
greater  and  more  inspiring  to  those  who  are  able  to 
understand  it.  For  these  elders,  as  I  said,  are  human 
spirits,  —  whether  in  youth  or  age,  in  wealth  or 
want,  in  humility  or  greatness,  on  earth,  —  who  were 
eminently  faithful  while  they  lived,  and  therefore  are 
welcomed  in  heaven  when  they  die.  Their  crowns 
are  but  the  emblems  of  that  eminence  which  their 
excellence  gives  them  in  that  world  where  —  O,  how 
unlike  this  present  world  !  —  all  things  are  seen  as 
they  are,  and  where  it  is  seen  and  confessed  that 
they  who  have  rendered  most  useful  service  to  oth- 
ers, and  held  fast  their  confidence  in  God,  are  the 
only  true  sovereigns  of  the  race  of  man.  For  while 
all  other  influence  declines,  and  all  other  glory  grows 
pale  as  stars  at  sunrise,  their  power  over  others  ex- 
tends, and  their  names  become  more  illustrious,  as 
ages  pass  away.  Did  not  our  Saviour  say  to  his  fol- 
lowers, that  they  should  sit  on  thrones  preeminent 
among  the  tribes  ?  And  so  it  is.  What  other 
Hebrew  names  are  now  in  power  ?  what  Hebrew 
spirit  exerts  the  least  influence  on  any  living  heart  ? 
—  while  these  men,  humble  as  they  were  when  liv- 
ing, are  now  set  as  stars  in  the  firmament,  brightest 
among  the  sons  of  light,  and  their  influence  as 
teachers  of  heavenly  truth  and  apostles  of  their 
Master  is  deeply  felt  in  every  Christian  land,  in 
every  dwelling,  and  almost  every  heart. 

There  is  meaning,  too,  in  the  incense  which  rolls 


VISION   of   god's   throne.  65 

upward  from  their  censers,  —  "  phials,"  as  our  trans- 
lators have  strangely"  and  improperly  called  them,  — 
and  also  in  the  golden  harps  which  they  bear.  The 
former  is  a  sign  of  acceptable  devotion.  It  repre- 
sents, we  are  told,  the  prayers  of  the  holy  ;  and  it 
assures  us,  that  even  in.  the  sacred  presence,  in  the 
midst  of  the  cherubim  and  seraphim,  these  humble 
prayers  of  human  spirits  shall  be  heard,  —  the  pale, 
faltering  lips  of  the  mourner  on  earth  shall  find  audi- 
ence as  soon  as  the  angel's  burning  tongue.  And 
the  white  raiment  of  the  elders,  —  what  is  it  but  the 
illustration  which  our  Saviour  himself  employed, 
when  he  represented  the  religious  character  as  a 
wedding  garment?  that  is,  as  the  appropriate  dress 
of  the  festival,  signifying  that  he  who  put  it  on,  or 
became  holy,  was  for  the  first  time  to  taste  the  true 
enjoyment,  not  only  of  the  hope  of  heaven,  but 
of  the  blessings  which  surround  him  in  the  earth 
below. 

The  harps  which  they  bear, — they  too  have  their 
meaning.  They  are  the  sign,  not  only  of  worship, 
but  of  that  harmony  of  the  soul,  that  perfect  free- 
dom from  all  discordant  action,  which  forms  so  large 
a  part  of  the  happiness  of  the  blest.  We  know  how 
it  is  with  the  living  ;  we  see  that  there  is  something 
harsh  and  grating  in  the  elements  within  them  ;  and 
as  long  as  it  is  so,  there  never  can  be  peace.  There 
is  some  unkind  feeling  to  others,  some  cherished 
worldliness,  some  sinful  self-indulgence,  which  is 
enough  to  destroy  all  the  grace  and  harmony  of  their 
spirits  within  them,  throwing  darkness  over  all  the 
6* 


66  vision  of  god's  throne. 

blessings  of  this  world,  and  darkening  the  prospect 
of  the  other.  Indeed,  all  of  us  know  enough  of  this 
to  appreciate  the  joy  which  must  come  from  the  full, 
free,  and  harmonious  exercise  of  all  the  powers  with- 
in us  in  some  effort  worthy  to  engage  them; — how 
it  silences  the  passions,  how  it  spreads  calmness  over 
the  troubled  waters,  giving  us  power  to  conceive 
that  peace  which  passeth  understanding,  and  which 
God  reserves  for  the  blessed  in  heaven. 

And  now  the  question  arises,  —  Can  we  take  in 
the  meaning  of  this  vision  ?  Is  there  any  thing 
within  us  by  which  we  can  understand  the  glory  of 
things  not  seen  with  the  eye,  such  as  truth,  holiness, 
and  love  ?  or  do  we  give  all  our  attention  to  the  out- 
ward splendor  of  this  description,  having  no  heart  to 
feel  the  superior  beauty  and  greatness  of  spiritual 
things  ?  Does  generous  action  affect  us  like  some 
fine  object  in  nature  ?  Do  our  hearts,  which  grow 
warm  in  the  presence  of  fine  scenery,  equally  kindle 
when  we  look  on  excellent  and  lovely  deeds?  Have 
we  never  learned  to  regard  a  high  soul  with  the 
same  feeling  of  sublimity  which  the  mountain,  the 
ocean,  or  the  broad  heaven  awakens  ?  When  we 
look  over  the  human  prospect  that  surrounds  us,  with 
its  heights  of  joy  and  depressions  of  sorrow,  does  it 
not  awaken  interest,  —  yes,  and  a  deeper  interest 
than  that  inspired  by  the  rich  landscape  spreading 
out  beneath  our  view  ?  For  this  is  the  difference 
between  those  who  are  spiritual  and  those  who  are 
not.  The  spiritual  mind  is  touched,  affected,  and 
impressed  by  things  which  are  not  visible  to  the  eye. 


vision  of  god's  throne.  67 

It  finds  more  inspiring  beauty  and  attraction  in  the 
higher  traits  of  conduct,  character,  and  life,  than  in 
the  greatest  and  loveliest  of  visible  things ;  and 
therefore  it  turns  with  enthusiasm  to  the  life  and 
spirit  of  the  Saviour,  as  the  pencil  of  inspiration 
has  painted  them  ;  and  through  him  who  was  the 
image  of  his  Father,  it  looks  up  with  joy  unspeak- 
able, with  a  heart  full  of  glory,  to  its  awful  and  yet 
gracious  God.  Such  is  the  mind  which  prepares  for 
the  enjoyment  of  heaven.  For  all  these  visible 
things  set  before  us  in  the  vision  cannot  endure  ; 
they  are  perishable  and  fleeting;  crowns,  and  harps, 
and  jewels  shall  soon  blend  with  common  dust. 
The  only  enduring  crown  of  immortality  is  the 
smile  and  favor  of  the  Most  High  ;  the  harp  of 
heaven  is  the  harmony  of  a  soul  at  peace  with  itself, 
with  others,  and  with  God  ;  while  the  jewels  which 
never  lose  their  lustre  are  those  virtues  and  affec- 
tions which  are  always  rich  and  glorious  even  here, 
and  they  are  the  heavenly  treasure  which  death  can- 
not take  away. 


SERMON    VII.* 


THE  PEACE  OF  THE  SOUL. 

LORD,  NOW  LETTEST  THOU  THY  SERVANT  DEPART  IN  PEACE. 

Luke  ii.  29. 

This  beautiful  expression  of  grateful  readiness  to 
die  came  from  the  lips  and  from  the  heart  of  an 
aged  man,  who  had  waited  through  a  long  life  in 
the  hope  of  the  Messiah's  coming.  When  the  Son 
of  God  was  come,  and  he  held  the  infant  Saviour 
in  his  arms,  he  felt  that  he  had  nothing  more  to  live 
for,  and  whenever  it  pleased  God  to  call  him  away 
he  was  willing,  perhaps  more  than  willing,  to  go. 
And  the  reason  of  this  cheerful  self-surrender  was, 
that  the  wants  of  his  soul  were  satisfied.  Through 
his  whole  life  he  had  felt  a  want,  —  a  conscious 
want  within  him,  which  nothing  could  ever  supply, 
till  the  sight  of  the  Saviour  —  of  him  whom  proph- 
ets and  kings  desired  in  vain  to  see  —  shone  upon 
his  late  evening  of  life,  and  gave  the  peace  desired  to 
his  soul. 

In  this  we  have  an  image  of  humanity  wherever  it 

*  A  funeral  discourse  on  a  lady  whose  death-bed  experiences  had 
been  peculiarly  affecting  and  satisfactory. 


THE  PEACE  OF  THE  SOUL.  69 

is  found  ;  —  "As  in  water  face  answereth  to  face,  so 
the  heart  of  man  to  man."  In  every  human  being 
there  is  a  want  which  nothing  in  this  world  can  sup- 
ply. Riches,  comforts,  luxuries,  or,  if  his  taste  rises 
higher,  intellectual  resources  and  enjoyments,  are 
tried  in  vain.  He  enjoys  them,  and  yet,  in  the  midst 
of  his  pleasure,  there  is  the  same  conscious  want, 
troubling  him  somewhat  in  his  prosperity,  but  lying 
heavy  upon  his  heart  in  dark  and  lonely  hours. 
Those  who  are  least  in  the  habit  of  attending  to 
what  passes  within  themselves,  —  even  they  are  con- 
scious of  an  uneasiness,  an  unsatisfied  yearning  for 
something  better.  The  instrumentality  of  outward 
blessings,  on  which  they  relied  for  satisfaction,  has 
not  answered  the  purpose.  You  can  see  in  the  ex- 
pression of  their  face,  if  they  do  not  say  it  in  so 
many  words,  that  something  is  not  right ;  there  is 
still  a  want,  and  this  want  is  a  want  of  the  soul. 

What  will  satisfy  this  want?  What  does  the  soul 
crave  ?  It  is  not  pleasure  ;  it  is  not  that  happiness 
which  is  generally  desired,  and  which  appropriates 
the  name  ;  what  mankind  call  pleasure  comes  only 
from  sources  within  this  world.  The  soul  wants 
something  that  is  unchanging  ;  and  this  is  not  to  be 
found  in  a  perpetually  changing  world.  The  soul 
wants  rest ;  and  this  is  not  to  be  found  in  a  restless 
world.  God,  who  is  himself  a  spirit,  knows  what 
the  spirit  needs,  and  has  provided  for  it  ;  — peace,  as 
inspiration  calls  it  with  its  usual  power  of  expres- 
sion, which  is  not  quite  the  same  with  happiness, 
for  it  is  higher,  nor  by  any  means  the  same  with 


70  THE  PEACE  OF  THE  SOUL. 

pleasure,  because  it  is  steady  and  lasting.  It  has  its 
sources  far  in  the  highlands,  like  the  great  river  of 
Egypt,  where  no  human  eye  hath  seen  its  fountains, 
and  thence  comes  down  in  its  rejoicing  fulness  to 
revive  and  bless  the  sons  of  men. 

What  the  soul  wants  is  peace  ;  —  peace  with  our- 
selves, peace  with  others,  and  peace  with  God.  Nei- 
ther of  these  can  it  have  in  truth  and  reality  with- 
out having  the  others  also.  No  man  who  is  not  at 
peace  with  himself  is  ever  at  peace  with  others  ;  for 
it  is  not  so  much  their  affronts  and  injuries,  but 
something  within  himself,  which  wakes  his  hatred 
and  revenge.  No  one  who  is  not  entirely,  heartily 
at  peace  with  others  can  ever  be  at  peace  with  God. 
If  he  believes  that  he  is,  he  holds  a  delusion  and 
falsehood  to  his  heart.  This  peace  is  what  we  need 
for  this  life,  in  order  to  live  well  and  happily  here. 
Without  it,  we  cannot  be  prepared  to  go  into  eter- 
nity ;  for  to  die  in  peace  is  the  blessing  which  every 
heart  desires,  and  would  desire  still  more  fervently, 
if  it  saw  through  the  world  into  its  depths  of  solemn 
meaning. 

But  to  be  at  peace  with  ourselves,  —  is  that  so  un- 
usual ?  Indeed  it  is.  Self-content,  self-satisfaction, 
abounds  ;  but  what  I  mean  is,  to  be  at  peace  with 
the  conscience  after  the  heart  and  life  have  passed 
often  before  it  in  stern  and  sincere  review.  The 
conscience  seldom  speaks  loud  ;  no  man  in  the  ordi- 
nary course  of  life  is  obliged  to  hear  it ;  he  has  the 
power  to  shut  his  heart  against  it,  if  he  wills.  And 
when  he  does  so,  it  will  stand  apart  in  silent  sorrow, 


THE    PEACE    OF    THE     SOUL.  71 

like  a  friend  who  would  fain  give  him  warning,  but 
feels  that  it  is  useless,  and  therefore  looks  sadly  upon 
the  self-destroying  way  in  which  he  goes.  To  be 
at  peace  with  conscience  means  to  be  at  peace  with 
an  active  and  awakened  conscience  ;  and  no  man 
ever  secures  this  blessing  till  he  has  courage  to  be 
alone  with  it,  to  ask  and  hear  what  it  has  to  say,  and 
then  regards  its  gentle  intimations  as  so  many  com- 
mands of  God.  Do  you  ever  look  over  the  relations 
in  which  you  stand,  to  know  whether  you  discharge 
their  obligations  or  not  ?  Do  you  ever  examine  your 
own  sense  of  duty,  to  know  whether  it  is  living  and 
strong  within  you  ?  Do  you  seriously  endeavour  to 
know  what  your  conscience  thinks  of  the  life  you 
are  leading  ?  If  not,  you  may  be  self-satisfied,  — 
alas  for  you  if  you  are  !  —  but  at  peace  with  your- 
self you  cannot  be.  You  have  yet,  like  the  prod- 
igal, to  come  to  yourself,  before  you  can  be  ready  to 
depart  in  peace. 

To  be  at  peace  with  others.  It  may  not  be  easy 
in  this  world  ;  for  we  receive  some  neglects  and  in- 
juries at  times,  and  we  imagine  a  thousand  more. 
The  passions  of  others  come  in  conflict  with  our 
passions,  and  we  resent  as  a  personal  insult  their  do- 
ing what  we  should  do  in  their  stead.  Besides, 
merely  to  refrain  from  alienation  is  not  to  be  at  peace 
with  them.  We  must  be  in  full  harmony ;  our 
hearts  must  be  in  living  sympathy  with  theirs  ;  and 
any  selfishness,  indifference,  or  pride,  which  prevents 
this  union  of  interest  and  feeling,  is  inconsistent  with 
the  spirit  of  our  Master.     Till  these  are  suppressed, 


72  THE    PEACE    OF    THE    SOUL. 

and  supplied  by  better  affections,  there  is  no  peace 
with  onr  fellow-men. 

And  to  be  at  peace  with  God.  Do  we  not  know 
that  our  Saviour  came  for  this  purpose,  —  to  recon- 
cile us  to  him,  to  his  dispensations,  and  his  law  ?  — 
to  make  us  one  with  himself,  and  therefore  one 
with  the  Father,  so  that,  when  able  to  discern  the 
indications  of  his  providence,  we  shall  say,  whether 
they  bring  us  joy  or  sorrow,  "  Father,  thy  will  be 
done  !  "  Not  that  we  shall  never  suffer.  It  is  neces- 
sary that  we  should  suffer ;  it  is  good  for  us  to  suffer. 
No  easy  path  can  lead  us  upward  ;  in  'the  midst  of 
suffering,  under  the  wearing  labor  which  duty  and 
submission  require,  we  find  the  truth  of  the  prom- 
ise, "  I  will  give  you  rest."  Peace  we  may  have. 
We  must  not  ask  for  joy ;  joy  is  the  wick  of  candle 
soon  burnt  out,  while  peace  is  the  serene  and  never- 
setting  star.  And  this  peace  is  for  him  who  stands 
ready  to  leave  the  world  in  harmony  with  his  own 
conscience,  in  friendship  and  full  sympathy  with 
others,  and  in  union  of  purpose  and  spirit  with  his 
Saviour  and  his  God. 

I  am  now  to  remind  you  of  a  peaceful  departure 
of  one  of  our  number,  who  has  just  left  us  for  the 
unseen  world.  Though  her  living  form  cannot  be 
present  here,  her  living  spirit  may ;  her  memory  and 
example  may ;  and  would  that  I  had  power  to  bring 
them  before  your  hearts  with  the  same  lifelike 
impression  which  they  have  made  and  left  in  my 
own  ! 

Her  conversion  to  God  was  sudden.     The  act  of 


THE  PEACE  OF  THE  SOUL.  73 

self-surrender  was  made  at  once  ;  after  it  she  seemed 
to  live  for  God  and  duty  alone.  But  do  not  under- 
stand me  as  saying  that  nothing  went  before  it,  that 
there  was  no  preparation  made  or  needed  for  that 
effort  of  self-sacrifice  to  God.  O,  no  !  There  were 
many  hours  of  thought  fulness  ;  there  were  prayers 
which  the  world  did  not  hear  ;  ( there  was  a  deep  in- 
terest in  the  word  of  truth  before  she  felt  its  power. 
Was  it  indifference  which  brought  her  in  pain  and 
sickness  to  this  house,  when  many  of  the  firm  and 
strong,  through  fear  of  the  frowning  elements  of  na- 
ture, were  kept  away  ?  There  is  a  path,  — a  straight 
and  narrow  path,  —  in  which  we  must  travel  up  to 
this  great  attainment.  It  could  only  have  been  by 
cherishing  religious  impressions,  by  regarding  it  as  a 
matter  of  life  and  death,  by  exercising  herself  in  obe- 
dience to  conscience  and  to  God,  that  she  gained 
the  strength  to  give  her  heart  with  such  entire  unre- 
serve, such  affectionate  self-devotion,  to  her  Saviour 
and  her  God. 

I  say,  to  her  Saviour  and  her  God.  She  found 
the  truth  of  the  saying,  that  he  and  his  Father  are 
one,  and  whoever  looks  on  him  is  looking  on  the 
Father  ;  —  a  truth  which,  mechanically  stated,  may 
lead  into  error,  but  which  cannot  be  misunderstood 
by  the  devoted  and  reverential  heart.  For  as  when 
we  look  into  the  reflecting  telescope  we  see  only  the 
image,  but  say  that  we  are  looking  at  the  sun  itself, 
so  it  is  only  through  Jesus  Christ  that  we  arrive  at 
any  understanding  of  the  Father,  —  only  through 
him  that  the  Unseen  and  Unapproachable  is  brought 


74  THE    PEACE    OF    THE    SOUL. 

within  the  reach  of  mortal  view.  Nothing  could 
be  deeper  than  her  sense  of  gratitude  to  Him  who 
died  for  her  ;  it  was  through  him  that  she  hoped  for 
the  forgiveness  of  her  sins.  She  found  in  herself, 
as  all  true  Christians  find,  that  her  growing  interest 
in  the  Saviour  passed  upward,  by  easy  and  uncon- 
scious transition,  to  his  Father  ;  and  as  her  heart 
opened  to  her  Father,  she  delighted  more  and  more 
in  the  bright  image  and  divine  presentment  of  his 
love. 

When  her  heart  was  thus  turned  to  her  heavenly 
Father,  in  thorough  sympathy  with  his  holy  will 
and  fond  reliance  on  his  mercy,  she  was  at  peace 
with  herself.  Not  that  she  was  insensible  to  her  un- 
worthiness.  She  felt  —  as  erring  man  should  feel 
^—  deep  self-abasement  for  her  sins,  and  wonder  and 
adoration  of  his  forgiving  love.  In  former  days,  to 
her,  as  to  all  the  rest  of  us,  there  had  been  some- 
thing wanting  ;  but  after  she  arose  and  went  to  her 
Father,  the  dissatisfied  feeling,  the  uneasy  desire, 
which  is  found  in  so  many,  passed  away  for  ever 
from  her  heart.  Her  very  countenance  was  changed. 
The  light  and  the  love  shone  bright  from  within  ; 
no  one  came  near  her  without  feeling  that  a  genial 
and  reviving  influence  was  there  ;  the  beauty  of  ho- 
liness was  in  the  expression  of  her  features  ;  —  for 
this,  when  all  other  beauty  is  a  faded  flower,  can 
still  remain,  an  un withering  crown  upon  the  brow. 
What  a  persuasive  charm  there  is  in  this  unbroken 
serenity !  Who  would  not  pray  for  this  warm- 
hearted glow  which  survives  in  the   very  face   of 


THE  PEACE  OF  THE  SOUL.  75 

death  ?  It  is  like  the  sunny  place  which  we  some- 
times find  in  the  dead  of  winter,  in  the  bosom  of 
the  evergreen  wood.  The  verdure  is  bright,  and 
the  spring  is  cheerfully  flowing  on  the  edge  of  the 
far-spreading  snow  ;  and  the  redbreast,  lingers  there, 
in  fearless  confidence,  when  all  its  brethren  are  fled. 
She  was  also  at  peace  with  others.  I  do  not  mean 
simply  that  she  forgave  those  who  had  injured  her, 
for  the  dying  have  seldom  much  memory  for  wrongs  ; 
it  is  not  easy  to  be  unforgiving,  when  we  are  made 
to  feel  how  much  we  need  to  be  forgiven.  More 
than  this.  She  felt,  and  manifested  an  affectionate 
interest  in  all,  —  loving  her  friends  better  than  ever, 
but  feeling  that  the  heart  is  for  the  many  as  well  as 
the  few.  She  earnestly  desired  to  lead  them  to  the 
fountains  of  living  waters,  where  she  had  relieved 
the  thirst  of  her  soul  ;  still,  there  was  no  forcing  the 
subject  upon  them,  but  a  delicacy  and  judgment, 
united  with  fervor,  showing  how  well  sympathy  un- 
derstands the  way  to  the  heart.  When  her  friends 
came  to  visit  her,  she  did  not  think  it  necessary  to 
change  the  religious  subject  on  which  she  was  con- 
versing, nor  to  suppress  the  voice  of  prayer.  With 
that  refinement  which  true  religion  inspires,  she 
made  them  welcome,  not  only  to  her  chamber,  but 
to  those  subjects  of  interest  in  which  all  have  equal 
concern, — taking  for  granted,  that,  if  they  were 
friends  to  her,  they  were  not  strangers  to  her  Father 
and  their  Father,  to  her  God  and  their  God.  Thus 
when  she  lay,  to  all  appearance,  helpless  and  power- 
less, she  was  in  truth  doing  much  in  the  service  of 


76  THE    PEACE    OF    THE    SOUL. 

her  Master  ;  and  it  cannot  be  that  any  whom  she 
was  so  affectionately  desirous  to  impress  will  coldly 
forget  the  lessons  which  they  learned  at  her  dying 
bed.  If  so,  she  died  in  vain  for  them  ;  nor  is  there 
hope  that  those  who  suffer  themselves  to  forget  these 
impressions  will  ever  find  words  of  power  to  touch 
their  hearts  again. 

But,  what  is  more  than  all  beside,  she  was  at  peace 
with  God,  —  entirely  ready  to  accept  the  condition 
of  existence  which  he  assigned  her  ;  and  though  it 
cast  her  down  from  envied  prosperity  into  the  gloom 
of  a  sick-chamber  and  the  weariness  of  a  sick-bed, 
from  which  she  knew  there  was  no  release  but  the 
grave,  she  never  for  a  moment  doubted  that  his  will 
was  love.  She  knew  that  her  suffering  came  from 
her  best  and  kindest  Friend.  Assured  of  his  tender 
sympathy,  she  found  relief  in  communion  with  him. 
She  feared  not  to  be  alone  with  her  Father.  It  was 
the  familiar  dictate  of  her  heart  to  pour  out  her  feel- 
ings in  prayer  ;  and  in  those  later  stages  of  disease, 
when  the  powers  of  the  mind,  like  the  weak  hands, 
could  not  retain  in  their  grasp  the  things  they  en- 
deavoured to  hold,  her  spirit  would  return  from  its 
wanderings  to  listen  to  the  voice  which  spoke  to  her 
of  heaven  and  of  God. 

I  have  seen  genuine  religious  feeling  in  various 
forms  and  trials  ;  but  seldom  have  I  seen  it  on  the 
death-bed  so  healthy  and  unexcited,  at  once  so  fer- 
vent and  so  self-possessed.  Her  manifestations  of 
feeling  carried  with  them  the  conviction,  that  they 
were   severely  true.     Sometimes  you  listen  almost 


THE  PEACE  OF  THE  SOUL.  77 

with  sadness  to  the  expressions  of  the  dying,  doubt- 
ing if  they  know  themselves,  —  doubting  whether,  if 
their  days  were  prolonged,  the  life  would  make  good 
the  words.  But  here  there  was  something  which 
inspired  confidence  that  the  feeling  was  not  only 
sincere  for  the  moment,  but  strong  and  sure,  —  a  flame 
which,  once  kindled,  would  no  more  go  down.  The 
truth  must  have  been,  that  there  was  a  strength  and 
depth  of  feeling  in  her  heart,  to  which  she  herself 
and  others  were  strangers,  which  had  not  been  seen 
in  its  extent,  because  never  drawn  out  in  full  meas- 
ure before.  When  she  became  a  child  of  God,  these 
powers,  which  before  had  slumbered,  rushed  forth 
into  their  appropriate  field  of  action,  rejoicing  like 
the  strong  man  to  run  a  race,  exulting  like  the  wan- 
derers, who,  after  long  and  distant  wayfaring,  have 
reached  their  own,  their  native  land. 

It  was  in  the  last  hour  of  her  life  that  I  conversed 
with  her  of  the  things  which  belonged  to  her  peace. 
She  had  some  fear  of  the  death-struggle  ;  but  the 
words,  "  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled,"  seemed  as 
if  addressed  to  her,  and  she  dismissed  every  shadow 
of  dread.  And  how  needless  those  fears  would  have 
been  ! — for  in  the  closing  moments  there  was  neither 
a  struggle  nor  a  sigh.  And  then  she  lay  with  her 
cheek  gently  pillowed  on  her  right  hand,  and  the  left 
as  if  unconsciously  playing  with  the  ribbon  on  her 
breast,  —  the  very  image  of  sweet  and  sacred  repose. 
"  He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep,"  was  the  thought 
which  it  suggested  to  the  heart.  But  that  expres- 
sion, —  that  mysterious,  that  almost  divine  expres- 
7* 


78  THE  PEACE  OF  THE  SOUL. 

sion  of  wonder  and  delight,  which  lingers  like  a 
glory  on  the  face  in  the  first  hours  of  death,  —  who 
can  explain  its  unsearchable  depth  of  meaning  ?  It  is 
no  living  expression  ;  it  was  not  there  before  ;  and  it 
is  as  far  removed  as  possible  from  the  cold,  stern  look 
of  death.  I  have  seen  it  more  than  once  in  those 
who  died  in  peace  ;  but  whence  it  comes,  and  what 
is  its  meaning,  no  human  power  can  tell.  It  is  said, 
that,  when  the  arm  is  severed,  the  sensation  in  it  is 
felt  after  the  separation ;  and  so  it  may  be,  that,  when 
the  parting  soul  flies,  and  the  glories  of  heaven  are 
bursting  on  its  transported  view,  it  is  the  lingering 
sympathy  of  the  frame  with  its  lost  associate  which 
lights  up  the  features,  — making  the  face,  as  it  were, 
the  face  of  an  angel,  and  giving  the  clearest  revela- 
tion of  heaven  we  can  have  in  the  world  below. 
But  conjecture  is  vain.  We  know  not  what  it  is. 
But  it  is  kind,  it  is  happy, 

"  And  I  do  ponder  with  most  strange  delight 
On  the  calm  slumbers  of  the  dead  man's  night." 

I  have  dwelt  at  unusual  length  on  this  example 
of  conversion,  because  it  seemed  to  me  so  genuine, 
thorough,  and  true.  How  unlike  the  repentance  of 
many,  which  needs  to  be  repented  of!  After  they 
have  professed  their  self-consecration  to  God,  they 
are  not  at  peace  with  themselves  ;  they  go  restlessly 
round,  to  have  their  religious  character  confirmed  to 
themselves  by  the  authority  of  others,  because  they 
have  not  the  witnessing  spirit  within.  Nor  are  they 
at  peace   with  others ;   they  have   simply  baptized 


THE    PEACE    OF    THE     SOUL.  79 

their  own  passions  with  a  sacred  name,  and  hence 
are  emboldened  to  indulge  them  more  freely  than 
ever,  —  having  nothing  and  manifesting  nothing  of 
the  Saviour's  spirit  of  love.  Nor  are  they  recon- 
ciled to  the  dispensations  nor  the  will  of  their  heav- 
enly Father.  They  are  looking  forward  to  a  world 
which  has  no  existence,  —  where  they  shall  be  able 
to  look  down  and  trample  on  those  whom  they  con- 
sider their  enemies  now,  and  where  they  shall  see 
those  who  have  enjoyed  their  good  things  deprived 
of  them  all,  that  they  may  possess  an  unworthy  tri- 
umph. Such  is  not  the  conversion  of  the  Chris- 
tian ;  such  was  not  the  effect  of  religion  in  her. 
Serene  composure  in  herself,  affectionate  earnestness 
for  the  religious  improvement  of  others,  calm  re- 
liance upon  God,  were  the  elements  of  her  religious 
life,  and  they  were  also  the  testimony  that  the 
change  was  true. 

There  will  be  those  who  will  say,  that  it  is  com- 
paratively easy  to  maintain  the  Christian  spirit  in 
the  retirement  of  the  sick-chamber,  where  the  cares 
and  passions  of  the  world  do  not  enter,  where  affec- 
tionate attention,  patient  and  forbearing  kindness, 
and  the  light  step  that  moves  unheard  about  the  bed, 
are  influences  all  favorable  to  peace  within.  And 
there  is  a  measure  of  truth  in  this.  But  we  ascribe 
to  outward  circumstances  more  than  is  in  them.  Are 
not  these  advantages  more  than  balanced  by  other 
things  within  ?  Must  not  the  exhaustion  of  disease, 
the  weariness  of  unchanging  rest,  the  irritability  of 
the  nerves,  and  the  sympathy  of  the  spirit  with  the 


80  THE  PEACE  OF  THE  SOUL. 

failing  strength,  —  must  not  all  these  be  unfavorable 
in  the  extreme  to  patient  self-possession  ?  The  rem- 
edies which  are  necessary  to  give  relief  and  rest,  as 
every  one  knows  who  has  tried  them,  though  they 
may  favor  strong  excitement  of  feeling,  have  no 
tendency  to  produce  a  calm  and  settled  peace. 
When  I  see  an  exulting  and  triumphant  state  of 
mind  in  the  consumptive,  I  do  not  wonder  ;  it  is 
comparatively  easy  to  create  and  to  sustain  ;  but  a 
serene  and  collected  peace  of  mind  is  less  usual.  It 
is  as  seldom  found  as  these  spring-like  days  in  the 
midst  of  the  wintry  chill. 

Some  will  say  that  they  envy  her  such  a  depart- 
ure. Why  should  they  envy  that  which  is  within 
their  reach  ?  God  has  given  the  same  blessing  to 
them  ;  —  indeed,  they  may  enjoy  it  longer,  for  surely 
the  living  are  better  able  than  the  dying  to  serve 
God  and  prepare  for  heaven,  if  they  will.  Yes,  if 
they  will.  And  if  the  heart  and  the  will  are  want- 
ing now,  do  not  trust  that  death,  when  it  comes,  will 
supply  them;  it  is  more  apt  to  destroy  than  to  awak- 
en the  energy  and  strength  ;  the  warmth  of  the 
heart  is  often  quenched  by  the  cold  death-shade 
which  falls  upon  the  dying.  Now  is  the  accepted 
time.  Then  let  not  this  day's  sun  go  down  upon 
your  impenitent  heart.  From  this  moment  "  pre- 
pare to  meet  your  God,"  that,  whether  to  live  or  to 
die,  you  may  be  at  peace.  "  Thou  wilt  keep  him 
in  perfect  peace  whose  mind  is  stayed  on  thee  ; 
because  he  trusteth  in  thee." 


SERMON  VIII. 


CHRISTIAN  SINCERITY  NOT  LIKELY  TO  GIVE 
OFFENCE. 

THAT    YE   MAY  BE   SINCERE,   AND  WITHOUT  OFFENCE,    TILL    THE    DAY 

of  christ.  — Philippians  i.  10. 

It  is  possible,  then,  to  be  sincere,  and  at  the  same 
time  inoffensive  ;  or,  to  speak  more  in  the  spirit  of 
our  religion,  it  is  our  duty  to  be  open-hearted  in  our 
intercourse  with  others,  and  at  the  same  time  to  for- 
bear giving  them  offence  and  provocation.  There  is 
a  common  impression,  that  these  two  things  are  in- 
consistent with  each  other.  Those  who  undertake 
to  be  sincere  know  no  other  way  to  go  about  it  than 
to  say  or  do  something  impudent  to  others,  and  those 
who  are  desirous  to  keep  the  peace  with  others 
sometimes  feel  as  if,  in  order  to  do  it,  they  must  sup- 
press their  own  sentiments  and  convictions.  Now 
in  this  there  must  be  some  radical  mistake.  Inspi- 
ration connects  sincerity  with  inoffensiveness,  not  as 
if  it  were  a  forced  and  unnatural  union,  but  as  if 
they  were  sister  virtues.  So  indeed  they  are  ;  and 
what  God  hath  joined  together  let  no  man  put  asun- 
der, —  neither  in  his  conduct  nor  in  his  heart. 


82  CHRISTIAN    SINCERITY. 

The  statutes  of  God  have  their  limitations;  "hith- 
erto shalt  thou  come,  and  no  farther,"  is  written  upon 
each  duty  :  not  that  a  duty  can  be  carried  too  far,  — 
but  there  is  such  a  thing  as  excess ;  and  when  one 
runs  into  excess  in  any  thing,  he  runs  out  of  the 
duty.  He  is  not,  as  he  fondly  believes,  more  virtu- 
ous than  others  ;  on  the  contrary,  the  moment  he 
ran  into  excess,  he  stepped  over  and  out  of  the  lim- 
its of  his  duty.  Suppose  you  speak  freely  to  anoth- 
er or  of  another  :  keep  within  the  bounds  of  exact 
truth,  and  you  are  performing  a  duty  ;  but  every 
word  beyond  the  truth  is  a  lie.  Thus  it  is  that 
many,  in  their  earnest  and  excessive  statement  of  the 
truth,  run  over  it  into  falsehood  ;  as  he  who  runs 
furiously  up  to  the  river's  brink  is  forced  over  it  into 
the  waters  by  the  violence  with  which  he  moves. 
In  this  way  many  of  the  best  Christian  virtues,  by 
excess,  are  made  ridiculous  and  contemptible  in  the 
sight  of  men.  Prudence  becomes  avaricious  mean- 
ness ;  tenderness  degenerates  into  pitiful  weakness  ; 
charity  sinks  into  carelessness  of  truth  and  the  right ; 
justice  hardens  into  cold-hearted  and  selfish  exaction. 
And  by  the  same  process,  sincerity  becomes  coarse 
impertinence,  and,  like  swine  in  flower-gardens,  tram- 
ples with  happy  indifference  upon  the  feelings  of 
others.  It  is  curious,  and  at  the  same  time  fearful, 
to  see  how  easy  it  is  to  be  offensive  by  way  of  being 
sincere,  and  to  applaud  ourselves  for  our  virtues  when 
we  are  far  gone  in  the  opposite  sins. 

This  whole  subject  is  apt  to  be  confused  in  the 
general  mind.     There  are  some  who  wholly  misun- 


CHRISTIAN    SINCERITY.  83 

derstand  it,  —  some  who  cannot  conceive  of  being 
"sincere  and  without  offence,"  as  their  Master  was 
and  requires  his  followers  to  be.  "What,"  say  they, 
"  must  we  suppress  our  feelings  towards  others  ?  If 
we  think  hardly,  even  harshly,  of  them,  must  we  not 
let  them  know  it  ?  Would  it  not  be  meanness  and 
deception  to  leave  them  under  the  impression  that 
we  care  for  them  when  we  do  not  ?  It  is  true  our 
sincerity  will  give  offence  and  cause  alienation  ;  but 
is  it  not  more  honorable,  is  it  not  more  Christian,  to 
be  true  than  to  be  inoffensive  ?  " 

Now  I  say  there  is  confusion  of  thought  on  this 
subject.  Of  course  these  questions  must  be  affirma- 
tively answered.  It  is  right,  it  is  a  duty,  to  be  open- 
hearted  and  true.  But  this  view  does  not  cover  the 
whole  ground  ;  some  other  considerations  of  great 
importance  are  left  out  of  sight ;  and  what  I  wish 
to  do  is  to  disentangle  the  subject,  and  to  show 
what  is  the  true  statement  of  the  duty,  and  where 
the  self-delusion  lies. 

And  in  the  beginning  let  me  say,  that,  before  we 
can  understand  any  subject  of  this  kind  aright,  there 
are  some  indispensable  conditions  ;  the  foremost  of 
which  is,  we  must  have  a  Christianized  conscience, 

—  not  a  mere  hap-hazard  knowledge  of  right  from 
wrong,  obtained  or  found  we  know  not  when  nor 
how.     Such  is  what  most  men  call  their  conscience, 

—  mere  skin-deep  notions,  which  came  to  them  by 
chance,  and  which  have  never  been  found  wanting 
simply  because  they  have  never  been  tried.  As  the 
early  converts  were  commanded  to  be  baptized  in 


84  CHRISTIAN    SINCERITY. 

the  clear-flowing  streams,  so  every  man's  conscience 
needs  to  be  washed,  purified  from  its  errors  and  de- 
lusions, before  it  can  answer  the  purpose  of  a  con- 
science. Till  that  is  done,  it  misleads,  it  blinds,  it 
mistakes,  and  perverts  ;  it  will  not  serve  much  bet- 
ter for  the  guidance  of  the  life  and  the  regulation  of 
the  heart,  than  Julius  Cassar's  almanac  would  answer 
for  the  present  year. 

And  the  change  thus  essential  in  the  conscience  is 
to  put  it  in  a  Christian  state.  Very  much  depends 
on  the  position  from  which  we  take  our  views  ;  — 
looking  on  any  landscape,  we  see  that  th'ere  are  points 
of  vision  where,  if  we  were  to  paint  the  scene,  no- 
body would  know  it ;  all  things  would  be  out  of 
their  places  ;  the  impression  given  would  not  be 
true.  So  it  is  in  morals  and  religion  ;  and  we  never 
see  things  aright  till  we  put  ourselves  in  the  Chris- 
tian relation  of  children  to  a  Father,  and  regard  all 
mankind  as  our  brethren.  Then  we  understand 
what  our  obligations  are ;  we  comprehend  their  bear- 
ings and  proportions  ;  and  duty,  thus  viewed  and 
defined  in  the  light  of  a  Christian  conscience,  is  a 
different  thing  from  duty  as  it  is  described  and  rec- 
ognized by  the  natural  heart,  as  objects  just  seen  in 
the  dim  twilight  of  the  morning  are  entirely  altered 
when  we  behold  them  in  the  all -revealing  light 
of  day. 

Now  I  say,  that  to  put  ourselves  in  this  relation  of 
children  to  God,  and  of  brethren  to  those  around  us, 
and  to  recognize  the  duties  which  grow  out  of  these 
relations,  is  the  indispensable  condition  of  Christian 


CHRISTIAN    SINCERITY.  85 

judgment,  the  beginning  of  Christian  duty.  Who- 
ever has  not  done  this  must  not  talk  of  acting  from 
a  sense  of  duty,  any  more  than  he  who  does  not 
know  the  alphabet,  of  reading.  He  may  act  from 
what  he  calls  a  sense  of  duty,  but  it  will  generally 
appear  to  be  some  passion  baptized  with  a  name 
which  it  little  deserves.  His  sincerity,  like  his  other 
virtues,  will  not  have  the  stamp  of  Christianity  up- 
on it.  That  is,  it  will  not  be  true ;  for  only  Chris- 
tian virtues  are  genuine  virtues.  Other  affections 
may  wear  the  form  and  be  called  by  the  name  ;  but 
if  not  counterfeit,  they  are  mistaken  ;  —  they  will 
not  pass  with  the  Judge  of  quick  and  dead. 

Having  thus  mentioned  the  outfit,  without  which 
the  voyage  of  the  Christian  life  cannot  be  safely  nor 
successfully  made,  I  would  next  proceed  to  say  that 
a  Christian  —  I  mean  a  Christian  in  spirit  —  can  be 
sincere,  and  at  the  same  time  without  offence  ;  he 
can  keep  his  heart  open  to  God  and  open  to  man  ; 
he  can  make  known  his  sentiments  and  opinions 
without  reserve,  and  he  can  do  it  without  injuring 
any  one's  feelings  or  calling  enmity  down  upon  his 
head.  I  readily  allow,  that  one  who  has  not  the 
Christian  spirit  cannot  do  this  thing ;  and  why  ? 
Not  because  it  cannot  be  done,  but  because  he  does 
not  take  the  right  way  to  do  it.  There  are  many 
things  which  are  perfectly  practicable  if  properly 
undertaken,  which  become  impossible  when  we  set 
about  them  with  wrong  feeling  and  a  bitter  heart. 
Look  sharply  at  those  who  complain  most  of  the 
resistance  and  contrary-minded ness  of  men,  observe 
8 


86  CHRISTIAN    SINCERITY. 

their  ways  of  proceeding,  and  you  understand  at 
once  why  their  sincerity  is  offensive  and  their  be- 
nevolent efforts  do  more  hurt  than  good.  They 
warn  the  sinner  of  the  error  of  his  way,  but  they 
contrive  to  convey  an  insult  together  with  their 
warning ;  they  would  fain  save  endangered  souls 
like  brands  from  the  burning,  and  they  would  draw 
them  out  with  the  tongs  ;  they  scold,  and  threaten, 
and  call  up  all  manner  of  passions  in  opposition  to 
their  attempted  reforms,  and  then  complain  that  men 
dislike  sincere  dealing,  when  the  truth  is  only  that 
men  do  not  like  to  be  abused. 

It  is  the  fact,  doubt  it  or  deny  it  who  will,  that 
Christian  sincerity  —  that  is,  kind  sincerity  —  seldom 
offends  ;  or  if  it  does,  it  is  but  for  a  moment ;  the 
irritation  is  over  at  once,  and  always  gives  place  to  a 
feeling  of  gratitude  to  the  friend  who  has  manifested 
this  interest  in  his  brother's  welfare.  When  you  let 
your  neighbour  know  your  poor  opinion  of  him,  if 
he  thinks  that  it  gives  you  pleasure  to  say  it,  he  will 
be  angry,  no  doubt ;  but  why  ?  Not  because  of  your 
sincerity,  but  because  of  the  unkindness  which  at- 
tended it.  Tell  him  the  truth  of  your  opinion  and 
disposition  toward  him  as  a  gratification  of  your  own 
feeling,  and  he  may  hate  you  ;  but  if  you  spoke 
with  an  evident  interest  in  his  welfare,  such  as  a 
brother  should  feel,  you  might  say  ten  times  more 
without  awakening  a  single  resentful  feeling  ;  or 
rather,  you  might  give  him  a  sense  of  gratitude  to 
you  that  would  last  as  long  as  he  lives.  While  they 
who  speak  the  truth  in  wantonness    or  impudence, 


CHRISTIAN    SINCERITY.  87 

or  malice,  make  enemies  by  the  score,  you  will  not 
find  many  examples,  in  the  ordinary  walks  of  life,  of 
those  who  have  provoked  revenge  and  resistance  by 
speaking  the  truth  in  love.  If  you  would  feed  the 
hungry,  there  is  a  great  difference  between  setting 
food  kindly  before  them  and  throwing  it  into  their 
faces.  Yet  many  make  no  distinctions ;  they  think 
the  duty  of  sincerity  equally  meritorious  in  them- 
selves, in  whatever  manner  they  perform  it,  not  see- 
ing that  the  want  of  Christian  feeling  vitiates  every 
duty,  changing  blessing  into  cursing,  and  virtues 
into  sins. 

Since  it  is  quite  possible,  then,  or  rather,  since  it 
is  our  duty,  to  be  sincere  and  without  offence,  we 
ought  next  to  consider  how  it  may  be  done. 

First,  we  must  put  ourselves  in  a  right  state  of 
feeling  to  be  sincere,  — that  is,  to  discharge  this  duty 
of  sincerity.  Considered  merely  as  a  native  trait  of 
character,  it  is  worth  much  to  its  possessor.  In  the 
kind  and  conscientious  it  is  eminently  beautiful,  —  it 
has  the  same  sort  of  attraction  with  the  easy  and 
unstudied  grace  of  childhood  ;  but  when  connected 
with  a  less  generous  disposition,  it  becomes  a  snare, 
—  leading  one  to  the  hasty  utterance  of  feelings 
which  he  had  better  silence  and  suppress ;  and  when 
found  in  a  person  of  bitter,  unsocial,  and  overbear- 
ing spirit,  it  has  all  the  ugliness  of  sin.  If  order, 
neatness,  and  peace  are  found  within  the  dwelling, 
it  is  well  to  have  clean  windows  ;  but  if  riot,  filth, 
and  discord  are  there,  the  more  the  glass  is  darkened 
with  dust,  the  better.     In  like  manner,  sincerity  may 


88  CHRISTIAN    SINCERITY. 

lose  all  the  loveliness,  the  blessing,  and  even  the 
reality  of  virtue,  should  it  be  found,  as  it  sometimes 
is  found,  in  a  hot  or  a  cold,  a  malicious  or  a  venge- 
ful heart.  No  words  are  too  strong  to  impress  the 
necessity  of  making  the  tree  good  in  order  that  the 
fruit  shall  be  good,  —  of  starting  with  the  right  prin- 
ciple and  the  right  spirit,  remembering  that  a  defect 
or  perversion  in  these  first  elements  of  the  Christian 
life  may  send  a  depraving  influence  through  all  the 
character  and  all  time.  It  is  the  same  thing  which 
is  condensed  in  the  broad  and  luminous  expression, 
that  we  are  nothing  without  love.  Our  virtues,  or 
rather,  what  might  be  virtues,  are  nothing,  unless  a 
kind  spirit  is  in  them,  and  sincerity  without  it  will 
be  unloving  and  unlovely,  unblessed  of  heaven,  un- 
welcome and  unprofitable  to  men. 

In  the  second  place,  we  must  examine  ourselves 
strictly  in  reference  to  this  point ;  because  we  are 
too  easily  contented  with  general  impressions  that 
all  is  right  within  us.  If  a  man  asks  himself  wheth- 
er his  heart  is  right,  he  is  easily  satisfied  with  a 
careless  feeling  that  it  is.  It  is  only  by  watching 
its  manifestations,  by  observing  how  he  is  affected 
by  particular  circumstances  or  particular  persons,  that 
one  can  find  out  what  spirit  he  is  of.  He  says  that 
he  has  no  unkindness  to  any  body  ;  but  observe  if 
there  are  any  whom  he  treats  coldly,  —  of  whom  he 
speaks  severely  ;  then  you  may  find  that  he  is  unac- 
quainted with  himself ;  and  it  is  only  by  unsparing 
self-scrutiny  that  he  can  detect  the  plague  of  his 
own  heart.     Let  him  say  whether  he  endeavours  to 


CHRISTIAN    SINCERITY.  89 

love  those  who  hate  him,  whether  he  prays  for  those 
who  use  him  contemptuously,  whether  he  can  give 
his  hand  to  every  man  cordially,  as  to  a  brother  ; 
for  all  this  Jesus  did,  —  all  this  he  said  that  his  fol- 
lowers must  do,  or  they  are  none  of  his.  Do  you 
openly  say  that  you  have  not  these  feelings,  —  that 
you  do  not  try  to  have  them,  that  you  do  not  wish 
to  have  them  ?  The  sincerity  with  which  you  de- 
clare it  will  not  supply  what  is  wanting  ;  you  can 
never  make  yourself  a  Christian  by  simply  acknowl- 
edging that  you  are  not  one  now. 

In  the  third  place,  let  us  remember,  that,  if  we 
would  be  sincere  and  without  offence,  we  must  pre- 
pare for  true  sincerity  with  others  by  being  sincere 
with  ourselves.  The  virtue  ceases  to  be  a  virtue 
unless  we  carry  it  through  ;  and  yet  there  are  those 
who  pride  themselves  on  their  open  dealing  with 
others,  while  they  use  no  sincerity  with  themselves, 
—  never  studying  out  their  own  dangers  and  defi- 
ciencies, never  wishing  to  know  them,  —  apparently 
thinking,  that,  if  a  man  is  without  concealment  where 
others  are  concerned,  he  may  lie  to  himself  as  much 
and  as  fast  as  he  will.  If  to  deceive  others  is  a  sin, 
to  practise  a  fraud  on  one's  self  is  not  without  its 
dangers  ;  in  one  respect  the  danger  is  greater  than 
that  of  other  transgressions.  Whoever  deceives  oth- 
ers knows  it;  he  cannot  hide  it  from  himself;  he 
cannot  hold  up  his  head  or  his  heart  as  if  he  was 
not  guilty.  Not  so  with  him  who  deceives  himself. 
He  destroys  the  sensibility  of  conscience  ;  he  pre- 
vents the  possibility  of  shame ;  he  may  live  and  die, 


90  CHRISTIAN    SINCERITY. 

applauding  himself  for  sincerity  to  others,  when  a 
little  openness  to  himself  would  show  that  no  Chris- 
tian —  that  is,  no  conscientious  —  virtues  have  ever 
had  place  in  his  soul. 

Let  it  be  remembered,  then,  that  sincerity  is  a 
Christian  grace  only  when  it  is  found  in  a  Chris- 
tian's heart.  If  it  is  bitter,  and  unkind,  and  offen- 
sive, it  may  be  sincerity,  but  it  is  not  the  sincerity 
of  a  Christian.  It  is  not  inspired  by  a  sense  of  duty ; 
it  is  nothing  more  than  self-indulgence  ;  it  has  no 
praise  of  men ;  it  is  not  accepted  and  blessed  of  God. 
Let  us  resolve  to  cherish  the  virtues,  hot  as  we  find 
them  in  ourselves,  but  as  they  are  displayed  in  the 
life  and  example  of  our  Master.  There  are  vegeta- 
bles in  the  garden  which  in  their  wild  state  are  little 
-better  than  poisonous,  but  by  being  cultivated  have 
become  good  for  food ;  so  there  are  virtues  which  in 
the  natural  heart  are  of  no  value,  while  in  the  Chris- 
tian heart  they  are  rich  and  glorious  elements  of 
character.  Let  us  not  mistake  the  imperfect  for  the 
finished,  the  partial  for  the  whole  ;  let  us  endeavour 
to  secure  the  Christian  virtues  in  their  completeness, 
and  to  be  entire,  wanting  nothing.  Thus  we  "  may 
be  sincere  and  without  offence  till  the  day  of  Christ ; 
being  filled  with  the  fruits  of  righteousness,  which 
are  by  Jesus  Christ,  unto  the  glory  and  praise  of 
God." 


SERMON    IX. 


THE  TRINITY. 

I    AND    MY    FATHER    ARE    ONE. John  X.  30. 

I  have  refrained  for  years  from  treating  of  doctri- 
nal discussions  in  this  place,  except  as  they  were  in- 
cidentally suggested  ;  not  because  I  did  not  think  it 
important  to  form  right  opinions,  but  because  I 
thought  men  were  much  more  likely  to  form  their 
opinions  aright  without  such  discussions  than  with 
them,  —  by  resorting  solely  to  the  word  of  God.  Such 
examinations  may  not  bring  men  to  your  opinions  nor 
mine,  but  they  will  bring  them  to  the  truth  ;  —  for 
whatever  a  man  receives  after  conscientious  exam- 
ination of  the  subject  is  truth  to  him.  Why  can  we 
not  make  the  distinction  between  views  of  truth, 
and  truth  itself?  They  are  different  things.  Thus, 
here  stands  a  mountain  :  a  man  who  lives  on  one 
side  represents  it  as  a  pyramid,  piercing  the  heaven 
as  with  a  wedge  ;  another  in  another  quarter  paints 
it  as  resembling  a  high-breaking  wave  ;  another  yet 
in  his  drawing  makes  it  like  a  wall  with  battlements 
and  towers.  So  various  are  their  views  of  the  same 
object  in  nature  ;  but  there  stands  the  mountain  un- 


92  THE    TRINITY. 

changing  and  unchanged.  And  so  truth  remains  un- 
changing and  unchanged,  while  the  views  which 
men  take  of  it  vary  with  their  position,  with  their 
natural  spirit,  and  the  influences  which  have  power 
in  their  souls. 

But  the  words  of  our  text  require  some  interpreta- 
tion. "  I  and  my  Father  are  one."  And  that  you 
may  not  suspect  me  of  being  influenced  by  party 
spirit,  should  I  attempt  to  explain  them,  I  will  give 
you  other  authority  for  what  I  say.  Dr.  Campbell, 
an  interpreter  of  the  Scriptures  who  was  orthodox 
enough  and  to  spare,  says,  —  "  The  word  is  not  ef?, 
one  person,  but  ev,  one  thing,  or  the  same  thing.  It 
might  have  been  so  rendered  here  ;  but  the  expres- 
sion is  too  homely,  in  the  opinion  of  some  excellent 
critics,  to  suit  the  dignity  of  the  subject."  But,  he 
adds,  "  what  is  distinguished  in  the  original,  we 
ought,  if  possible,  to  distinguish."  In  almost  all 
translations  of  the  Scriptures  except  the  English,  in 
the  Latin,  in  the  French,  in  the  Italian,  you  will  find 
this  distinction  ;  in  the  English  it  does  not  appear, 
so  that  this  fails  to  give  the  Saviour's  meaning.  But 
let  that  meaning  be  restored,  —  "  I  and  my  Father  are 
the  same  thing."  Let  us  no  longer  follow  those 
"  excellent  critics,"  who  care  more  for  the  dignity  of 
language  than  the  dignity  of  truth. 

It  is  not  because  I  have  any  objection  to  the  state- 
ment that  the  Father  and  Son  are  the  same  person, 
that  I  correct  this  mistaken  reading  ;  for  such  has 
been,  and  is  now,  the  opinion  of  a  great  portion  of 
the  best  Christians.     They  believe,  and  have  be- 


THE    TRINITY.  93 

lieved  for  ages,  that  God  exists,  or  at  least  manifests 
himself,  in  three  persons.  Now  I  believe  that  no 
opinion  can  obtain  large  and  long  acceptance,  can 
be  believed  by  many  and  for  ages,  without  having 
in  it,  or  under  it,  a  basis  and  substance  of  truth. 
The  truth  is  the  life  of  every  opinion  ;  —  unless 
there  is  truth  in  it,  it  will  soon  and  surely  die.  And 
if  this  doctrine,  that  God  manifests  himself  in  three 
persons,  has  been  for  many  generations  accepted  and 
kept  near  the  hearts  of  true  Christians,  it  is  not  to 
be  lightly  rejected  ;  it  is  perhaps  not  to  be  rejected 
at  all.  We  must  rather  search  into  it  diligently,  to 
see  why  it  is  that  they  prize  it,  — to  see,  indeed,  what 
it  is  ;  for  it  is  one  of  the  effects  of  controversy,  not 
only  to  make  men  ignorant  of  the  opinions  of  oth- 
ers, but  also  to  blind  them  to  their  own. 

Bat  you  ask,  "  How  can  it  be  true  that  God  man- 
ifests himself  in  three  persons  ?  "  To  answer  this 
question,  we  must  first  ascertain  what  a  person  is, 
and  what  was  probably  meant  by  those  who  first 
used  the  word.  Going  back  to  the  language  from 
which  the  word  "  person  "  came,  we  find  it  was 
taken  from  representations  on  the  stage.  The  per- 
sona was  the  mask  which  an  actor  wore,  through 
which  he  spoke  to  the  audience  ;  and  it  was  shaped 
in  its  features  to  be  expressive  of  the  character  which 
the  actor  sustained.  It  process  of  time,  the  original 
meaning  of  the  word  persona  was  forgotten  ;  it 
came  to  stand  for  a  character.  So  it  was  often  used 
in  ancient  times,  and  so,  without  doubt,  it  was  used 
by  those  who  represented  God  as  manifesting  him- 


94  THE    TRINITY. 

self  in  three  "  persons  "  ;  —  not  meaning  that  three 
different  beings  were  united  in  one  being,  which  is 
impossible,  but  only  that  God  sustains  three  different 
characters  in  his  intercourse  with  men  ;  —  meaning 
that  in  Christianity  he  is  represented  in  the  character 
of  a  Father,  when  considered  as  creating  or  preserv- 
ing the  universe,  in  the  character  of  a  Redeemer, 
when  he  saves  the  world  through  Jesus  Christ,  and 
in  the  character  of  a  Comforter  and  Sanctifier,  when 
he  holds  direct  communication  with  the  souls  of 
men.  This  I  believe  was  the  original  doctrine  of 
one  God  in  three  persons  ;  it  meant  three  "  charac- 
ters," not  three  "  beings  "  ;  and,  for  my  part,  I  see 
nothing  to  object  to  it.  If  it  did  not  give  the  im- 
pression that  God  represents  himself  in  three  char- 
acters only,  I  should  readily  receive  it  as  true.  It  is 
not  a  simple  nor  happy  statement  of  truth,  and  yet 
it  is  substantially  true. 

Now  it  is  in  this  sense  of  the  word  "  person,"  — 
person  being  used  for  character,  — that  it  is  said  that 
Jesus  Christ  and  his  Father  are  one, — one  "person," 
if  you  will.  No  one  can  believe  that  two  beings  are 
one  being  ;  nothing  is  more  certain  than  that  two 
beings  are  not  one  being  :  and  yet  they  may  be 
spoken  of  as  one  person,  because  it  is  understood  to 
mean  one  character,  and  this  is  eminently  true  of 
the  Father  and  the  Son.  It  is  the  character  of  God 
which  is  manifested  through  the  Saviour  ;  it  was  to 
give  us  an  idea  of  the  Divine  character  that  he  came ; 
when  I  look  at  his  character,  I  see  in  it  a  living  rep- 
resentation of   the  character  of  God.     I  make   no 


THE    TRINITY.  95 

separation  in  my  own  mind  between  his  character 
and  that  of  the  Almighty.  When  I  look  into  a  re- 
flecting telescope,  I  see  an  image  of  the  planet 
toward  which  the  tube  is  turned.  I  say  I  am  look- 
ing at  the  planet  itself,  and  yet  it  is  the  reflection 
which  comes  to  me  ;  still  I  think  and  speak  of  the 
planet  and  its  image  as  one.  In  the  same  sense  are 
the  Saviour  and  his  Father  one  ;  and  if  we  have 
reference  to  character  when  we  speak  of  them  as 
one,  there  is  no  contradiction  ;  it  is  no  mistake. 
Though  they  are  separate  beings,  and  as  beings  can- 
not be  the  same  with  each  other,  still,  in  character, 
in  purpose,  in  love  for  mankind,  they  are  one.  He 
or  his  Father,  it  is  the  same  thing,  —  inspiring  the 
same  affections,  breathing  the  same  spirit  of  love. 

This  I  take  to  be  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity  as 
it  originally  found  faith  and  favor  in  men's  hearts. 
It  did  not  maintain  the  impossibility  that  three  be- 
ings are  one,  but  only  that  God  manifests  himself  in 
three  different  aspects  to  men,  which  is  true  ;  —  not 
only  in  three,  but  in  many  others  ;  still,  in  all  these 
characters  it  is  the  same  God  who  appears  to  us,  for 
there  is  but  one.  In  this  form  it  is  neither  unrea- 
sonable nor  untrue  ;  and  it  is  in  this  form,  I  am  per- 
suaded, that  the  doctrine  is  now  generally  received 
by  the  thinking  part  of  the  Christian  world.  If  it 
did  not  admit  of  being  received  in  this  form,  I  be- 
lieve it  would  have  been  rejected  long  ago. 

But  I  pass  to  another  part  of  the  same  doctrine  ; 
I  mean,  the  union  of  God  and  man  in  the  person  of 
Jesus  Christ.     Had  it  originally  meant  that  two  be- 


96  THE    TRINITY. 

ings  were  united  in  one,  it  would  soon  have  per- 
ished and  passed  away.  But  taking  the  word  "  per- 
son "  in  its  original  meaning,  the  doctrine  would  be, 
—  indeed,  the  doctrine  was,  —  that  Divine  attributes 
and  human  virtues  were  united  in  the  character  of 
Jesus  Christ.  And  this,  so  far  from  being  mysteri- 
ous, inconsistent,  or  impossible,  is  the  result  which 
our  Saviour  endeavours  to  produce  in  all  his  follow- 
ers. He  wishes  to  make  them  like  himself,  —  unit- 
ing the  Divine  and  human  in  character ;  he  speaks  as 
if  man  might  be  made  in  some  humble  measure  a 
resemblance  of  himself,  —  a  character  where  the  Di- 
vine is  blended  with  the  human,  and  the  human  rises 
and  towers  into  the  Divine.  Not  that  man  can  ever 
be  invested  with  miraculous  gifts  and  powers,  like 
his  own,  —  not  that  man  should  be  commissioned  to 
govern  the  elements  of  nature,  to  heal  the  dying, 
and  raise  the  dead.  It  is  character  of  which  we  are 
speaking,  and,  however  inferior  in  nature  or  station 
to  himself,  he  addresses  men  as  if  their  character 
might  be  formed  under  the  influences  of  Heaven, 
after  the  likeness  and  fashion  of  his  own. 

Some,  however,  will  ask,  how  I  can  speak  of  the 
union  of  Divine  excellence  with  human  virtue  in  the 
Saviour,  when  human  and  Divine  excellence  only 
differ  in  degree.  If  it  were  so,  there  would  not  be 
two  different  characters  to  be  united  in  one.  But  it 
is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  Divine  excellence  in- 
cludes human  excellence  within  it,  as  the  greater  in- 
cludes the  less.  On  the  contrary,  they  are  different 
in  kind  ;   they  consist  of  different  elements ;   they 


THE    TRINIT\r.  97 

exist  independently  of  each  other,  and  it  was  by  far 
the  grandest  disclosure  that  ever  was  made  to  men, 
when  it  was  manifested  in  the  Saviour  that  the  hu- 
man could  be  united  with  the  Divine.  If  an  airy 
bridge  were  formed,  by  which  man  could  reach  the 
stars,  it  would  not  open  such  a  field  for  the  ambition 
of  man,  nor  so  much  exalt  his  glory. 

If  you  ask  what  excellence  there  is  in  human 
character  which  does  not  belong  to  the  Divine,  I 
answer  in  one  word,  — religion.  That  sort  of  ven- 
eration with  which  we  contemplate  surpassing  excel- 
lence and  greatness,  that  confiding  spirit  with  which 
man  clings  to  the  rock  that  is  higher  than  he,  is  one 
of  the  most  exalting  traits  in  human  character.  Man 
must  respect  in  order  to  be  respectable  himself;  his 
veneration,  his  self-humiliation  in  presence  of  supe- 
rior moral  claims,  so  far  from  lowering  his  real  stand- 
ing, elevates  him  in  the  sight  of  God  and  man.  But 
evidently  the  Highest  of  all  beings  cannot  venerate, 
because  there  is  nothing  higher  nor  greater  than  him- 
self. All  those  beautiful  and  refining  emotions, 
which  grow  out  of  a  sense  of  dependence  on  a  heav- 
enly Father,  belong  not  to  the  God  of  heaven  ;  so 
that  religion,  which  is  the  crowning  grace  of  human 
character,  makes  no  part  of  the  Divine. 

So,  too,  it  is  plain  that  improvement,  which  is  the 
life  of  human  virtue,  can  make  no  part  of  the  excel- 
lence of  the  Most  High.  Man  sets  out  from  small 
beginnings,  —  his  powers  are  like  the  small  blade 
springing  in  the  early  year,  which  gradually  and 
slowly  rises,  and  spreads  and  unfolds  its  treasury  of 
9 


98  THE    TRINITY. 

flowers.  And  all  this  process  is  a  work  of  life  ;  the 
whole  development  is  living  and  healthy  action;  and 
never  is  man  acting  in  so  exact  consistency  with  his 
nature,  as  when  he  rises  in  the  ascending  scale  of 
improvement,  where  every  climbing  step  lifts  him 
into  a  purer  air,  enlarges  his  field  of  vision,  and 
brings  him  nearer  to  that  clear,  bright  summit  which 
it  is  his  heart's  desire  to  reach. 

Here  we  see  that  there  are  some  of  the  best  traits 
of  human  excellence  which  make  no  part  of  the  Di- 
vine. Religion  and  religious  improvement  are  ex- 
clusively human  traits  of  character,  and  to  these  and 
other  human  virtues  our  Saviour  united  traits  of 
Divine  excellence  in  such  a  union  as  never  existed 
before  him,  and  such  as  we  could  not  have  compre- 
hended had  we  not  seen  it  manifested  in  living  ac- 
tion in  his  history  while  he  was  in  this  world.  Thus 
we  see  that  to  godliness  he  added  humanity,  which 
inspiration  says  is  better,  —  godliness  being  the  hu- 
man virtue  and  humanity  the  Divine.  Never  was 
any  thing  like  universal  benevolence,  never  was  any 
all-embracing  good-will,  seen,  or  known,  or  dreamed 
of,  till  it  shone  out  in  the  Saviour's  life  of  love. 
And  then  that  self-sustaining  energy  which  grows 
out  of  conscience,  which  more  than  any  thing  else 
reminds  us  of  self-existence,  and  that  steady  and 
unchanging  perseverance  in  well-doing  which  gives 
a  sort  of  eternity  to  the  creature  of  to-day,  in  re- 
semblance of  Jesus  who  was  "  the  same  yesterday, 
to-day,  and  for  ever,"  —  these,  and  many  other  Di- 
vine traits,  did  he  bring  into  connection  with  human 


THE    TRINITY.  99 

excellence,  thus  presenting  a  union  of  God  and 
man  such  as  the  world  never  before  saw. 

I  dwell  on  this  union  longer,  perhaps,  than  is  ne- 
cessary, for  I  wish  that  my  meaning  and  my  view  of 
the  subject  may  be  thoroughly  understood.  I  am 
not  fond  of  believing  that  my  brother-Christians  pro- 
fess absurdities  and  contradictions.  I  care  much 
more  for  my  own  feeling  toward  them,  than  I  do  for 
their  feeling  toward  me.  I  would  fain  respect  their 
understandings  as  well  as  their  hearts.  Hence  I  re- 
joice to  see,  that,  when  they  first  used  the  word  "per- 
son "  in  this  connection,  they  meant  character,  and 
the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity  originally  was,  that  God 
manifests  himself  in  three  different  characters,  —  in 
creating  and  preserving,  in  redeeming  and  saving, 
and  in  comforting  and  sanctifying,  the  sons  of  men. 
Who  will  deny  it  ?  Who  stands  ready  to  contro- 
vert a  truth  which  is  so  little  at  war  with  the  Gos- 
pel ?  The  union  of  God  and  man,  —  which,  when 
first  thought  of  as  a  union  of  person,  seems  im- 
possible to  believe  or  understand,  —  if  we  remem- 
ber that  person  originally  meant  character,  and  that 
a  union  of  character  is  all  that  is  intended,  ceases 
to  be  a  mystery  or  contradiction,  and  becomes  an 
inspiring  truth.  And  thus  it  is  that  every  doctrine 
which  has  ever  gained  large  acceptance  was  orig- 
inally founded  on  a  basis  of  truth,  and  if  we  dig 
through  the  fragments  which  have  crumbled  and 
fallen  round  it,  we  shall  come  down  to  the  living 
stone,  —  to  the  rock  of  ages  on  which  it  stands. 

Here  you  see  the  reason  why  I  have  never  pressed 


100  THE    TRINITY. 

this  subject ;  it  is  because  I  believe  that  the  great 
proportion  of  Christians  hold  opinions  in  relation  to 
it  substantially  the  same  with  ours.  When  Profes- 
sor Stuart  came  forward  as  the  authorized  expound- 
er of  the  Trinitarian  faith,  he  said  they  did  not  be- 
lieve in  three  persons  as  we  use  the  word  ;  they  did 
not  believe  in  three  beings  united  in  one  God  :  all 
they  maintained  was,  that  the  Scriptures  recognized 
a  threefold  distinction  in  the  Deity,  —  meaning,  as 
it  would  seem,  a  distinction  of  character,  such  as  I 
have  admitted  ;  for  the  Scriptures  speak  of  God  the 
Father,  they  speak  of  the  Saviour  as"  God  with  us, 
and  the  term  Holy  Spirit  is  often  applied  to  God. 
And  thus,  I  have  no  doubt,  you  will  find  that  those 
who  really  have  opinions  on  these  subjects  agree 
-very  nearly  with  each  other.  The  great  difficulty 
is,  that  so  many  take  up  with  words,  and  never  are 
at  the  pains  of  forming  an  opinion.  Looking  at  the 
words  which  Christians  use,  you  would  suppose 
them  to  be  fearfully  disunited ;  but  words  are 
not  much,  —  words  are  the  daughters  of  earth,  and 
therefore  perishable,  while  things  are  the  sons  of 
heaven,  and  do  not  pass  away.  Words  cannot  keep 
men  apart  for  ever,  any  more  than  air-lines  can  form 
permanent  inclosures.  There  are  some  animals, 
which,  if  you  draw  a  line  round  them,  will  feel  as 
if  it  could  not  be  passed  over  ;  but  the  greater  pro- 
portion of  those  which  have  wings  and  feet  are 
always  ready  to  use  them.  No  one  needs  be  trou- 
bled about  party  feelings ;  they  are  of  those  things 
which  perish  with  the  using.     Now  they  are  like 


THE    TRINITY.  101 

ice  upon  the  living  waters,  binding  up  their  chan- 
nels and  suppressing  the  music  of  their  flow  ;  but 
when  the  Sun  of  righteousness  rises  higher,  —  and 
rise  it  will,  —  all  these  chilling  restraints  on  the  free 
action  of  the  mind  and  heart  shall  feel  its  influence, 
and  for  ever  melt  aM*ay. 

I  see  the  Divine  mercy  in  this  provision,  that  in 
all  matters  of  profound  importance  men  cannot  think 
very  unlike  each  other.  They  may  talk  very  dif- 
ferently ;  they  may  feel  some  alienation  ;  but  these 
things  are  written  so  plainly  on  the  front  of  the 
sacred  page  that  he  who  runs  may  read,  and  read 
the  same  practical  meaning.  As  Christians  grow 
more  spiritual,  they  take  less  note  of  things  out- 
ward, and  give  more  heed  to  those  that  are  within. 
When  they  look  under  the  distinctions  of  party,  they 
see  that  one  Christian  is  like  another  Christian  ;  his 
real  character  is  not  affected  by  the  name  which  he 
happens  to  bear.  And  thus  narrowness  and  exclu- 
sion are  wearing  away  :  —  things  are  leading  to  that 
consummation  when  there  shall  be  one  fold  and 
one  shepherd,  —  one  faith,  one  baptism,  —  one  God 
and  Father  of  all. 


SERMON    X. 


IMMORTALITY   OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

YOUR    HEART    SHALL   LIVE   FOR    EVER.  Psalm  XXli.  26. 

Of  the  many  striking  things  in  the  Old  Testa- 
ment, there  are  none  which  impress  me  more  than 
these  transient  and  occasional  bursts  of  inspiration, 
which  anticipate  what  Christianity  was  afterwards 
~to  teach,  and  intimate  to  that  dark,  ancient  world 
what  its  rich  disclosures  of  truth  were  to  be.  They 
seem  like  lightning-flashes  illuminating  the  deep 
obscurity  for  a  moment ;  —  not  long  enough  to  give 
any  clear  and  connected  impressions  of  truth  to  those 
who  knew  it  not ;  but  still  they  are  sufficient  to 
show  to  those  who  might  otherwise  doubt  it,  that 
the  inspiration  of  God  is  in  those  ancient  volumes, 
and  gleams  of  the  same  light  shone  through  it  which 
afterwards  broke  in  full  glory  upon  the  world  when 
the  Saviour  came  from  on  high. 

Observe,  then,  how  much  is  implied  in  these 
words,  —  "  Your  heart  shall  live  for  ever."  They 
mean  that  the  body  shall  not;  in  its  present  elements 
it  shall  not ;  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  life  im- 
mortal.    Now  we  lavish  our  pains  and  care  upon 


IMMORTALITY    OF    THE    AFFECTIONS.  103 

it  ;  earnest  to  provide  for  its  wants,  its  dress,  its 
nourishment,  and  shelter; — still  more  solicitous  Jo 
provide  it  with  those  luxuries  which  sometimes  bring 
heaviness  and  disease,  and  never  minister  to  its 
strength  and  joy.  Our  anxiety  and  forecast  for  the 
body  extend  into  the  future.  We  are  unhappy  if 
we  have  not  laid  up  means  and  resources  to  sustain 
it  in  future  years,  not  one  of  which,  perhaps,  we  are 
to  see.  So  much  does  the  worldly  spirit  act  upon 
the  religious  spirit,  that  if  any  one  suggests  that  the 
body  shall  not  survive  the  grave, — that  the  spiritual 
body,  according  to  St.  Paul's  fine  illustration,  shall 
be  as  different  from  it  as  the  new  plant  is  from  the 
seed  from  which  it  springs,  —  he  is  rejected  as  a  teach- 
er of  falsehood  and  delusion.  But  certain  it  is,  — 
and  this  is  the  point  of  the  truth  conveyed  in  these 
words, — certain  it  is  that  the  happiness  of  the  future 
existence  shall  not  come  from  the  body,  from  the 
gratification  of  its  passions,  nor  the  exercise  of  its 
powers  ;  and  just  so  far  as  a  man  depends  for  his 
enjoyment  on  these  earthly  indulgences,  he  is  unfit 
for  that  spiritual  state  to  which  death  will  soon  trans- 
late us,  and  for  which  it  is  our  wisdom  now  to  pre- 
pare. He  will  find  himself  in  that  world  cursed 
with  desires  for  which  there  is  no  gratification  : 
while  the  enjoyments  of  the  refined,  heavenly  spirit 
are  no  better  than  tortures  to  his  soul. 

These  words  also  imply  that  the  mind,  though  it 
shall  endure,  will  not  be  the  source  of  happiness  in 
another  existence.  We  know  too  little  of  its  nature 
to  say  whether  death  will  change  it  ;  but  certainly 


104  IMMORTALITY    OF    THE    AFFECTIONS. 

it  will  change  our  estimation  of  it ;  for  now,  in  this 
world,  talent,  force  of  mind,  genius,  are  set  highest 
among  the  gifts  of  God.  This  is  an  advance,  indeed, 
from  that  state  of  imperfect  civilization  in  which 
bodily  strength  and  symmetry  are  in  the  highest 
esteem  ;  in  proportion  as  men  make  intellectual  ad- 
vances, the  mind  and  its  interests  rise  above  the  body 
and  its  powers.  But  our  religion  would  fain  carry 
on  this  course  of  improvement  till  men  shall  under- 
stand that  the  affections,  —  or,  as  they  are  called  in 
Scripture,  the  heart,  —  the  heart  is  as  much  above 
the  understanding  as  the  mind  is  above  the  body 
whose  home  is  the  dust.  It  is  in  the  affections  that 
the  elements  of  heavenly  happiness  are  to  be  found  ; 
the  improvement  of  the  affections,  rather  than  of 
-the  mind,  is  the  preparation  for  the  heavenly  state. 
And  though  we  look  with  pleasure  on  physical 
strength  and  beauty,  which  strike  the  eye,  —  though 
we  admire  intellectual  ability  as  it  deserves,  and 
even  more  than  it  deserves,  —  still,  in  the  sight  of 
angels  and  of  God,  he  is  the  best,  and  happiest,  and 
greatest  of  mankind  who  has  the  largest  and  best 
heart.     "Your  heart  shall  live  for  ever." 

These  words  teach  us  what  should  be  our  constant 
object,  and  lead  us  also  to  consider  how  abundantly 
God  has  provided  for  it  on  every  side. 

Consider,  in  the  first  place,  how  all  the  arrange- 
ments of  this  life  favor  the  growth  of  those  affec- 
tions which  are  the  elements  of  life  immortal.  Our 
present  existence  is  not  much  by  itself;  but  it  grows 
into  immense  importance  when  we  consider  it  as 


IMMORTALITY    OF    THE    AFFECTIONS.  105 

part  of  another.  Its  joys  and  sorrows,  however 
deep,  are  comparatively  transient,  its  opportunities 
are  fleeting,  its  best  attainments  few  ;  but  when  we 
regard  them  as  pointing  forward  to  other  things  be- 
yond themselves,  —  far  greater  and  more  enduring 
than  themselves,  —  they  become  solemn  and  momen- 
tous. And  we  may  see,  if  we  look  for  the  traces 
of  God's  design,  how  all  the  arrangements  of  life 
are  framed  with  the  view  of  calling  out  the  affec- 
tions in  preparation  for  life  immortal.  The  home, 
where  it  is  a  home,  is  evidently  ordained  for  this 
purpose,  requiring  of  each  within  it  to  suppress 
those  selfish  passions  which  darken  over  every  thing 
which  they  touch,  and  making  it  manifest  that  all 
the  sunshine  and  comfort  of  the  dwelling  depend, 
not  on  its  magnificence,  not  on  the  luxuries  within 
it,  but  simply  and  entirely  on  the  spirit  of  love  with- 
in. And  the  circle  of  friendship  carries  out  those 
same  affections  into  wider  range.  If  we  can  only 
keep  down  those  jealousies  and  passions  in  which 
this  cold  world  abounds,  entering  into  the  feelings  of 
others  with  hearty  sympathy  and  good-will,  we  find 
that  the  good  we  can  do  to  them,  important  as  that 
may  be,  is  less  than  the  blessing  which  comes  home 
to  ourselves.  And  that  all  these  are  Divine  arrange- 
ments may  be  seen  from  the  moral  and  spiritual  laws 
which  run  through  them,  — which  ordain  that  these 
affections  shall  move  in  paths  of  duty,  or  as  soon  as 
they  wander  from  them  shall  lose  their  health  and 
joy,  and  bring  returns  of  nothing  but  pain.  Any 
thing  which  approaches  to  guilty  passion,  any  attach- 


106  IMMORTALITY    OF    THE    AFFECTIONS. 

ment  which  God  and  conscience  forbid,  any  even  of 
those  capricious  and  wandering  regards  which  pass 
over  those  to  whom  nature  devotes  them  and  fasten 
on  strangers  or  companions  who  have  no  right  to 
such  a  place  in  the  heart,  any  even  the  least  deser- 
tion of  those  paths  in  which  duty  requires  the  affec- 
tions to  go,  has  a  withering  power  upon  them.  Like 
the  palm-tree,  they  can  only  exist  where  God  hath 
planted  them  ;  transplant  them  to  another  place,  and 
they  die.  In  this  moral  condition  of  their  existence, 
we  may  evidently  see  the  hand  and  the  providence 
of  God. 

But  these  arrangements  of  life  for  a  certain  pur- 
pose are  not  meant  to  effect  that  purpose  of  them- 
selves ;  it  rests  with  us  to  trace  out,  to  follow,  and 
improve  them.  The  first  business  of  the  Christian 
life  is  to  deny  ourselves  ;  which  means,  not  to  deny 
ourselves  a  blessing  here  or  there,  but  to  resist  the 
strong,  selfish  tendency  of  our  nature,  to  train  our 
affections  in  the  right  way,  to  regard  them  as  the 
beginnings  and  indications  of  our  future  destiny, 
and  to  keep  our  heart  with  all  diligence,  since  out  of 
it  are  the  fountains  of  immortal  life.  Once  attach 
this  thought  of  immortality  to  the  affections,  and 
how  mighty  and  solemn  all  those  interests  become  ! 
Those  with  whom  we  are  associated  are  no  longer 
like  wayfarers  met  in  a  journey,  parted  from,  and 
seen  no  more.  They  are  associated  with  us  for  life, 
and  life  is  for  ever ;  and  it  is  a  matter  of  profound 
concern  to  cherish  every  right  attachment,  to  open 
the  heart  wide,  and  to  embrace  as  many  as  possible 


IMMORTALITY    OF    THE    AFFECTIONS.  107 

in  the  circle  of  its  love.  And  this  is  easy  to  any- 
one who  takes  counsel  of  his  Master.  If  he  follows 
the  guidance  of  his  own  deceitful  heart,  cold,  limit- 
ed, and  exclusive  the  range  of  his  affections  will  be, 
and  equally  narrow  will  be  the  bounds  of  his  future 
heaven  ;  but  if  he  endeavours  to  possess  the  univer- 
sal kindness,  the  all-embracing  love,  of  Jesus  Christ, 
he  will  see  what  others  do  not  see,  —  that  the  exercise 
of  those  unselfish  and  generous  affections  is  the  only 
true  happiness  of  this  life,  the  only  heaven  of  the 
other  ;  and  he  will  bless  the  order  of  Providence, 
and  those  arrangements  of  social  existence  which 
call  out  and  favor  the  upspringing  of  love  in  the 
heart. 

Again  :  the  arrangements  of  death,  all  of  which 
have  a  purpose  and  a  meaning,  are  even  more  fitted 
to  form  for  immortality  the  heart  which  is  to  live 
for  ever.  The  world  is  changed  by  the  presence  of 
death  ;  wherever  it  comes,  we  feel  that  a  new  influ- 
ence is  there  ;  a  power  is  there  which  was  not  there 
before.  Each  one  who  feels  at  all  feels  that  some- 
thing is  meant  by  it,  that  it  is  a  communication  ad- 
dressed to  him.  All  the  base  passions  are  hushed 
into  unusual  silence  ;  you  may  approach  your  worst 
enemy  then,  he  cannot  lift  his  hand  against  you  ; 
even  the  grasping  hand  of  worldliness  is  unclenched 
for  a  little  while.  The  friendship  which  in  former 
days  you  prized  as  one  of  the  blessings  of  existence 
now  appears  as  it  is,  —  an  indispensable  treasure;  you 
cannot  do  without  its  sympathy  ;  the  cold-flowing 
waters  in  a  thirsty  land  are  not  so  welcome  as  its 


108  IMMORTALITY    OF    THE    AFFECTIONS. 

words  of  feeling  to  you.  Man  feels  that  power, 
gold,  luxury,  and  the  possessions  most  desired,  have 
no  substantial  value  ;  they  cannot  supply  the  wants 
of  his  heart  in  those  dark  hours  ;  nothing  will  an- 
swer his  purpose  of  comfort  but  an  influence  com- 
ing back  to  his  own  heart  from  other  hearts  which 
are  to  live  for  ever. 

But  to  see  the  wisdom  of  these  arrangements  is 
of  little  avail,  unless  we  feel  them ;  and  surely  never 
do  the  affections  come  forth  in  purer  or  more  disin- 
terested action  than  in  the  presence  of  death.  The 
low  whispers  of  the  dying  voice,  the  unutterable 
expression  of  the  dying  eye,  the  faint  pressure  of 
the  hand  that  shall  never  be  pressed  again,  the  si- 
lence of  the  death-chamber,  and  all  the  scene  before 
us,  when  a  loved  one  passes  away,  have  a  power,  not 
so  much  to  oppress  the  heart,  as  to  wake  it  into  in- 
tensest  action,  and  to  make  manifest  all  the  warm 
affections  which  have  their  dwelling  within.  And 
it  is  for  this  reason,  undoubtedly,  that  we  are  com- 
pelled to  pass  through  these  fearful  separations.  We 
shudder  to  think  of  them,  we  entreat  that  they  may 
never  come  to  us  again,  and  yet  we  know,  that,  if 
we  have  not  been  insensible  or  unfaithful,  they  have 
done  for  us  a  service  which  nothing  else  could  do. 
They  have  left  our  hearts  better,  and  more  like 
hearts,  than  they  found  them  ;  they  have  brought 
us  into  dearer  communion  than  ever  before,  even 
with  those  whom  we  were  losing.  The  love  which 
began  on  earth  rose  into  a  heavenly  affection,  and 
at   the  very  moment  when  all   faith  and  firmness 


IMMORTALITY    OF    THE    AFFECTIONS.  109 

seemed  breaking  down  within  us,  we  were  com- 
ing nearer  than  ever  to  our  friends,  to  our  Saviour, 
and  our  God. 

These  changes  come  not  often;  and  when  they  do, 
it  is  of  great  concern  that  we  prepare  to  receive  them 
aright,  and  take  from  them  the  blessing  which  they 
bear.  It  is  God  who  is  speaking, to  us  at  such  times, 
and  it  is  not  well  to  turn  away  from  his  communi- 
cations. We  must  listen  with  undivided  attention  ; 
we  must  look  steadily  at  what  he  has  done,  to  make 
sure  that  we  understand  it ;  we  must  not  hasten  back 
to  the  ordinary  cares  of  life,  when  the  very  office  of 
the  death-angel  is  to  summon  us  away  from  those  or- 
dinary concerns  to  think  of  higher  and  better  things. 
Rare  and  precious,  as  well  as  fearful,  are  these  mo- 
ments ;  great  and  irreparable  is  our  loss  if  we  lose 
them  ;  but  if  we  receive  them  as  a  Father's  arrange- 
ments for  our  welfare,  we  shall  be  surprised  to  find 
a  feeling  of  gratitude  springing  out  of  the  ruins  of. 
our  earthly  happiness  ;  and  still  more  so,  to  discover 
that  a  new  depth  and  tenderness  of  feeling  come 
from  the  blow  which  seemed  stunning  to  the  heart. 

Once  more.  The  arrangements  of  the  future  ex- 
istence are  also  of  a  kind  to  favor  the  growth  of  the 
affections.  I  do  not  mean  in  those  who  have  entered 
upon  their  immortal  existence  ;  for  we  know  not 
what  they  are  now,  nor  where  is  their  home,  and  it 
is  only  rash  and  presumptuous  conjecture  which  un- 
dertakes to  speak  of  their  condition  and  circumstan- 
ces, and  the  influences  which  act  upon  their  souls. 
But  the  foresight  of  the  future  state,  the  vision  of  it 
10 


110  IMMORTALITY    OF    THE    AFFECTIONS. 

which  lies  before  us  in  the  light  of  the  Gospel,  must 
necessarily  have  a  great  effect  on  the  efforts  which 
we  make  to  reach  it ;  and  if  we  see  that  the  power 
of  the  mind  is  little  more  than  the  vigor  of  the 
frame  in  giving  us  our  preparation,  we  shall  turn  our 
attention  as  we  ought  to  the  full  unfolding  of  the 
energies  and  affections  of  the  heart.  Suppressed 
and  borne  down  as  they  are  by  the  selfishness  with- 
in, nothing  but  the  most  determined  endeavour  and 
patient  care  can  cause  them  to  spring  and  grow  in 
this  world,  in  readiness  to  open  like  flowers  in  anoth- 
er existence,  where  the  Sun  of  righteousness  shines 
upon  them  with  a  nearer  and  brighter  ray. 

If  you  ask  what  we  can  foreknow  of  the  arrange- 
ments of  another  world,  I  reply,  we  see  who  are 
passing  into  that  world,  and  what  they  bear  with 
them.  When  I  see  who  are  entering  the  gates  of  a 
city,  I  can  form  some  judgment  of  what  is  passing 
within  its  walls.  I  see  the  child  going  in  early  and 
unconscious  life,  before,  as  it  would  seem  to  us,  any 
purpose  of  its  coming  here  can  be  answered.  But  I 
see,  that,  early  and  unconscious  as  its  departure  is, 
it  has  had  time  and  power  to  awaken  strong  interest 
and  attachment  in  a  parent's  heart.  So,  then,  it  had 
its  mission  ;  its  work  is  done  ;  it  carries  high  hopes 
and  beautiful  affections  with  it,  and  it  gives  us  the 
assurance,  that  in  what  relates  to  the  heart  the  future 
life  is  not  so  unlike  our  own.  There  are  young 
children  in  the  house  of  their  Father  ;  their  light 
steps  and  glad  voices  are  heard  in  the  many  man- 
sions \  it  is  not  in  deep,  deathlike  silence  that  the 


IMMORTALITY    OF    THE    AFFECTIONS.  Ill 

spirits  of  the  blest  spend  their  day  ;  there  is  the 
same,  or  rather  a  far  greater,  variety  of  interest  and 
employment  than  this  world  affords.  The  holiest 
of  earthly  loves,  that  of  parents  for  their  children, 
cannot  be  wanting  there  where  all  holy  things  as- 
semble, and  He  who  on  earth  suffered  little  children 
to  come  to  him,  without  a  doubt,  is  equally  ready  in 
heaven  to  smile  upon  them  and  to  bid  them  wel- 
come to  his  arms. 

On  the  same  day  and  almost  at  the  same  hour  that 
the  infant  ascends,  another  is  called,  whose  life  was 
in  the  strongest  contrast  to  that  of  the  unconscious 
child  ;  —  the  one  who  had  not  entered  upon  life,  and 
the  one  who  had  passed  through  it,  go  together  into 
the  eternal  world.  The  mother  of  a  large  family, 
wise,  disinterested,  true-hearted,  of  few  words  but 
strong  affections,  feeling  that  her  many  cares  within 
the  domestic  circle  did  not  allow  her  to  wander  often 
nor  far  beyond  it,  and  yet  always  earnest  to  do  what 
she  was  able  in  the  cause  of  humanity,  —  always  to 
be  relied  on  as  a  fast  and  faithful  friend,  —  how  dif- 
ferent the  space  which  such  a  departure  opens ! 
How  wide,  —  how  dreary,  — how  impossible  to  fill ! 
And  the  feelings  wounded  in  this  departure,  how  un- 
like they  are  to  the  disappointment  and  sorrow  in 
the  other  !  There  is  no  room  for  imaginative  sad- 
ness. There  is  a  cold,  stern  reality  in  the  affliction, 
when  the  mother  of  a  family  is  suddenly  called  from 
a  place  and  a  trust  which  require  such  thoughtful 
concern  and  perfect  disinterestedness  as  are  only  to 
be  found  in  a  parent's  heart.     And  where  do  we  find 


112  IMMORTALITY    OF    THE    AFFECTIONS. 

the  explanation  of  such  inroads  of  death,  of  which 
we  have  witnessed  more  than  one  ?  Not  surely  in 
the  loss,  —  the  separation,  —  nor  in  the  grave.  We 
see  the  reason  in  the  arrangements  of  the  future  life, 
so  far  as  Jesus  Christ  reveals  them ;  for  though  the 
present  relations  of  life  shall  not  exist,  being  no 
longer  needed  there,  the  love,  which  is  the  life  of 
those  relations,  shall  endure,  —  not  destroyed,  not 
suspended,  but  only  strengthened  and  made  purer  by 
separation  ;  and  it  is  evidently  the  mission  of  these 
dispensations,  which  seem  so  fatal  to  our  happiness, 
to  prepare  us  to  renew  that  love  with  truer  and  holier 
affection  than  ever  entered  the  heart  before.  Thus 
the  arrangements  of  a  future  existence,  though  they 
sometimes  are  bitter  and  hard  to  bear  in  this  world, 
-are  really  full  of  immortal  blessing;  for  as  man  him- 
self is  not  quickened  except  he  die,  so  man's  affec- 
tions can  never  come  out  in  their  best,  most  pow- 
erful, and  heavenly  action,  till  they  have  been  sad- 
dened and  darkened  over  by  the  awful  presence 
of  death. 

I  would  ask,  then,  if  there  is  not  deep  meaning 
in  those  ancient  words,  —  "  Your  heart  shall  live  for 
ever."  Awake,  then,  to  a  sense  of  the  importance 
of  the  heart.  See  how  all  your  welfare  for  this 
world  and  the  other  depends  on  the  right  unfolding 
and  care  of  its  affections.  Remember,  also,  that 
there  is  deep  responsibility  connected  with  them, 
and  that  self-indulgence  of  the  feelings,  like  all 
other  self-indulgence,  brings  a  heavy-laden  harvest 
of  sorrow   and    shame    to    the   soul.     The   time   is 


IMMORTALITY    OF    THE    AFFECTIONS.  113 

short.  The  death-angel's  trumpet  often  rings  in 
the  midst  of  us;  as  we  listen  to  its  shuddering  blast, 
we  should  feel  that  the  next  summons  may  be  ours. 
"  Your  heart  shall  live  for  ever."  Is  your  heart 
right  with  God  ? 


10* 


SERMON    XI.* 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GOD. 

AND    NOW,    I    PRAY    YOU,    CONSIDER    FROM    THIS    DAY    AND    DPWARD, 
FROM    BEFORE  A  STONE  WAS    LAID    UPON   A    STONE    IN    THE    TEMPLE 

of  the  lord.  —  Haggai  ii.  15. 

There  are  many  things,  which,  without  any  sug- 
gestion on  my  part,  will  present  themselves  to  your 
minds,  to  give  interest  to  this  occasion.  We  return, 
after  a  long  and  unpleasant  suspension  of  our  ser- 
vices, to  this  our  spiritual  home,  where  enough  of 
the  old  remains  to  make  it  still  seem  familiar,  and 
where  enough  is  changed  to  make  us  feel  the  impor- 
tant advantages  of  the  change.  It  is  also  the  anni- 
versary of  the  day  when  I  made  my  first  address  as 
the  minister  of  this  people.  The  society  itself  had 
been  recently  formed.  I  came  among  you  a  young 
man,  without  experience,  without  any  adequate  prep- 
aration, with  a  heart  bowed  down  at  the  thought  of 
standing  apart  from  all  professional  sympathy,  and 
within  the  dreary  influences  of  a  controversial  war. 


*  Preached,  October  16,  1842,  on  reentering  the  church  after  it  had 
been  repaired  and  materially  altered. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    GOD.  115 

I  had  nearly  sunk  under  the  oppression  of  those  early, 
trying  years.  But  I  was  sustained  by  generous  con- 
fidence and  kindness  ;  there  was  full  sympathy  with 
my  professional  solitude,  and  it  is  owing  to  this,  and 
the  help  of  God,  that  now,  at  the  end  of  twenty-two 
years,  I  still  address  you,  and  am  able  to  congrat- 
ulate you  on  the  possession  of  as  much  prosperity  as 
such  associations  can  expect  to  enjoy.  I  speak  not 
of  outward  circumstances  ;  such  prosperity  is  noth- 
ing compared  to  that  of  internal  harmony,  of  mutual 
kindness  and  forbearance,  and  a  faithful  regard  for 
religious  services,  in  all  which  this  society  —  it  is 
but  just  to  say  it  —  never  has  been,  and,  I  trust, 
never  will  be,  wanting. 

It  is  with  a  solemn  feeling  that  I  look  back  on  the 
founders  of  this  church.  Venerable  forms  come  up 
before  me,  —  men  faithful  almost  to  sternness  in 
their  regard  for  these  sacred  duties,  having  no  faith 
in  the  devotion  which  loves  not  worship,  and  labor- 
ing to  impress  the  same  veneration  on  the  minds  of 
their  children.  I  remember,  too,  others  of  my  own 
age,  with  whom  I  hoped  to  go  down  the  vale  of  de- 
clining years,  —  men,  generous  and  true-hearted, — 
women,  affectionate  and  kind,  the  life  and  pride  of 
social  circles,  and  ever  faithful  in  their  attendance 
here.  All  left  in  this  house  a  dear,  and  yet  painful 
remembrance,  when  they  went  to  take  their  places 
with  the  dead. 

But  recollections  of  this  kind,  —  what  can  they 
avail  us  now  ?  They  can  do  this  for  us.  Let 
us  reflect  that  the  persons  of  whom  we  speak  are 


116  THE     HOUSE    OF    GOD. 

now  in  the  eternal  world.  Their  present  state  — 
what  it  is  we  are  not  permitted  to  know  —  was  in 
every  respect  determined  by  their  religious  faithful- 
ness while  they  were  with  us  on  earth,  —  a  religious 
faithfulness  depending  in  no  small  measure  on  the 
estimation  in  which  they  held  the  service  of  this 
house  of  God.  The  subject,  then,  to  which  we 
naturally  turn  is  the  service  of  the  house  of  God. 

And,  first,  these  places  are  strongholds  of  the 
religious  principle  of  the  community.  I  say  not 
of  the  religious  sentiment,  because  that  expres- 
sion is  misunderstood  ;  it  is  applied  to  a  mere 
love  of  nature,  a  barren  emotion  of  taste,  which 
has  no  more  connection  with  religious  faithfulness 
than  the  admiration  of  a  discovery  of  science  or  a 
work  of  art.  A  great  proportion  of  what  passes  for 
religious  sentiment  only  admits  the  fact  of  God's 
existence,  and  that  so  faintly  that  it  amounts  in 
practice  almost  to  a  denial ;  for  the  language  of  the 
life  is,  —  "  There  is  a  God,  and  there  is  a  certain 
sublimity  in  the  thought  of  such  a  majestic  Power 
and  Presence  ;  but  what  am  I  to  him  ?  and,  except 
as  a  subject  of  contemplation,  what  is  he  to  me  ?  " 
Now,  beyond  the  satisfaction  of  feeling  that  we  are 
not  the  sport  of  chance  or  destiny,  what  good  can 
such  a  recognition  of  God's  existence  do  ?  What 
good  did  it  ever  do  ?  You  have  found  it  in  the 
licentious  and  profane  ;  you  have  heard  it  breathed 
in  beautiful  tones  from  the  lips  of  men  of  genius, 
whose  lives  were  as  base  and  contemptible  as  the 
talents  which  God  gave  them  were  great  and  high  : 


THE    HOUSE    OF    GOD. 


117 


you  have  seen  enough  to  know  that  you  may  as  soon 
expect  fire  to  kindle  from  wintry  moonbeams  as  with 
such  religious  sentiment  to  warm  a  human  heart. 

The  only  thing  in  the  form  of  religious  sentiment 
which  can  do  any  good  to  the  soul  is  that  which 
recognizes  God,  not  as  a  mere  existence,  not,  to  use 
the  term  of  the  day,  as  an  abstraction,  but  which 
confesses  him  as  the  Author  of  life  and  blessing  to  all 
that  live.  Its  language,  I  mean  its  practical  language, 
is,  —  "I  stand  in  some  relation  to  him ;  it  can- 
not be  one  of  indifference  ;  I  must  have  something 
to  do  with  him  and  he  must  have  some  claim  on 
me.  Hence  arises  the  feeling  of  obligation.  If  he 
has  done  so  much  for  me,  I  ought  —  that  is,  I  owe 
it —  to  do  something  to  express  my  gratitude.  It 
is  not  a  matter  of  choice  ;  it  is  a  debt  that  must  and 
shall  be  paid."  Thus  seen  and  thus  followed,  the  re- 
ligious sentiment  becomes  a  religious  principle.  It 
ceases  to  be  a  lifeless  fancy;  it  lives,  and  moves,  and 
has  a  being,  and  acts  with  power  on  the  heart  in 
which  it  dwells.  Now  I  say,  —  and  I  ask  you  to 
hear  and  remember,  —  it  is  because  the  house  of  God 
destroys  the  hollow,  poetical  fancy  of  religious  senti- 
ment, and  insists  on  religious  principle  —  homely, 
hard-working,  unpretending  religious  principle — as 
the  essential  thing,  that  it  is  so  often  rejected  and 
held  in  light  esteem. 

For  the  same  reason  it  is  that  the  Sabbath  is 
sometimes  misunderstood  ;  —  not  by  the  sober  com- 
mon-sense of  New  England  ;  that  I  would  not  say. 
The  practical  religious  man  knows  that  he  has  a 


118  THE    HOUSE    OF    GOD. 

work  to  do,  and  he  wants  a  day  to  do  it  in.  He 
wants  a  time  for  thoughtfulness,  and  it  is  a  time 
which  he  knows  how  to  enjoy.  Go  to  such  a  man, 
and  offer  him  the  Sabbath  of  other  lands  ;  invite 
him  to  fool  away  the  consecrated  hours  in  singing 
and  dancing,  or  such  poor  amusements  as  the  vacant 
mind  can  enjoy  :  he  will  quietly  leave  all  that  hap- 
piness to  children,  and  find  his  happiness  in  that 
thoughtfulness  which  the  day  of  rest  inspires,  and 
which  has  given  to  that  day  its  firm  hold  on  the 
affections  of  enlightened  men,  —  so  firm  a  hold, 
that  those  who  lately  made  an  assault  on  the  Sab- 
bath found  themselves  like  men  scratching  with 
their  fingers  at  the  base  of  a  rocky  mountain  in 
hopes  to  overthrow  it  from  its  bed.  The  Sabbath 
still  exists  ;  —  ay,  and  long  will  it  exist,  the  only  day 
of  the  seven,  indeed,  which  shall  endure  when  time 
shall  be  no  more. 

The  religious  sentiment,  then,  embracing  the  idea 
of  obligation,  —  in  other  words,  religious  principle, — 
is  that  which  the  service  of  this  house  is  meant  to 
inspire  and  cherish  ;  and  I  would  next  ask  what  sort 
of  an  obligation  it  must  be.  If  there  is  a  God,  he  is 
a  living  person,  standing  in  a  certain  relation  to  us, 
having  certain  claims  which  must  be  answered. 
Does  any  one  say  it  is  an  obligation  to  lead  respect- 
able and  decent  lives  ?  No  doubt  there  is  such  an 
obligation  ;  but  is  that  high  enough  to  reach  up  to 
God  ?  One  who  leads  a  respectable  and  decent  life 
does  well  for  himself  and  mankind  unquestionably, 
as  he  who  leads  a  base  life  degrades  himself  and  in- 


THE     HOUSE    OF    GOD.  119 

jures  others  ;  but  can  any  one  say  that  this  is  full 
discharge  of  our  obligations  to  God,  or  that  it  goes 
near  to  discharge  them  ?  No  ;  there  must  be  some- 
thing more  than  this.  To  say  that  the  religious  sen- 
timent is  embraced  and  implied  in  this  would  be 
saying  what  no  one  feels.  The  religious  sentiment 
cannot  be  rightly  felt  except  in  the  Christian  way,  — 
by  looking  up  to  God  as  our  Father  with  childlike 
confidence  united  with  awful  veneration.  Nothing 
else  will  lift  up  the  heart  from  the  depths  of  world- 
liness  ;  nothing  else  will  have  power  to  touch  the 
springs  of  immortal  life.  When  a  man  feels  bound 
to  God  to  form  himself  for  holiness  and  heaven, 
then  and  not  before  is  there  any  reason  to  hope  that 
the  effort  will  be  made  and  the  work  be  done  ;  and 
as  the  domestic  affections  can  be  best  formed  under 
the  roof  of  the  family  mansion,  the  religious  spirit 
is  intimately,  I  had  almost  said  inseparably,  con- 
nected with  the  sweet  influences  of  the  house  of 
God. 

Some  may  think  that  I  have  carried  this  idea  too 
far.  To  those  who  reflect  but  little  on  these  sub- 
jects, and  measure  them  by  common  standards,  it 
may  seem  like  enthusiasm  to  say  that  every  man 
must  have  the  feeling  of  a  child  of  God.  But  to 
all  such  objections  I  reply,  that  common,  worldly 
habits  of  thought,  however  just  in  their  way,  are  no 
fit  guides  on  these  subjects  ;  worldly  sagacity  does 
not  see  through  these  things  ;  you  might  as  well 
depend  on  a  foot-rule  for  measuring  distances  in 
heaven.     There  is  no  force,  there  is  no  sense,  in  that 


120  THE    HOUSE    OF    GOD. 

presentment  of  the  subject  which  leaves  God  out  of 
view.  If  any  one  points  out  to  me  an  unexception- 
able man,  setting  aside  religious  affections,  and  asks, 
Is  he  not  good  enough?  I  answer,  he  may  be  good 
enough  for  this  world ;  he  may  be  good  to  me ;  but 
whether  he  is  good  enough  for  God  is  the  great  ques- 
tion, and  to  find  the  answer  to  this  question  I  urge 
him  to  compare  his  heart  and  life  with  the  Gospel, 
and  see  if  nothing  is  wanting.  Let  him  look  ear- 
nestly to  Jesus  Christ  and  his  early  followers,  and 
mark  the  elements  of  which  their  character  was 
made  up,  and  then  ask  himself  whether  the  same 
mind  and  spirit  are  in  him. 

The  very  object,  then,  of  the  service  of  this  house 
is,  to  keep  before  the  eyes  of  men  a  standard  of 
character  higher  than  they  meet  with  in  common 
business  and  care.  The  very  circumstance,  that  the 
views  presented  in  the  church  seem  excessive,  shows 
to  the  candid  mind,  —  not  that  those  views  are  over- 
wrought, —  it  shows  rather  how  much  the  man  of 
business  and  pleasure  needs  them.  And  if  those 
views  were  bent  down  into  conformity  with  the 
wisdom  of  this  world,  the  very  men  who  now  com- 
plain of  them  as  carried  too  far  would  be  the  first 
to  trample  them  into  the  dust.  Let  this  house,  then, 
be  kept  sacred  to  religious  feeling.  There  are  good 
feelings  which  are  not  religious  ;  let  this  house  be 
sacred  to  the  filial  feeling  which  dwells  in  a  child 
of  God.  May  we  come  here  to  learn  of  Jesus  what 
that  feeling  is,  —  to  learn  also  his  independence  of 
this  world  and  his  familiarity  with  the  other. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    GOD.  121 

And  now  I  would  go  on  to  say,  as  the  result  of 
my  experience  and  observation,  that  every  one  who 
cares  to  cherish  the  religious  sentiment  in  himself 
loves  the  service  of  the  house  of  God.  I  do  not  say, 
that  men  may  not  be  found  who  desert  these  places 
of  worship,  and  yet  are  laboring  to  feel  and  act  like 
children  of  God  ;  —  I  only  say,  that  I  have  never 
seen  them.  If  there  are  such,  they  are  probably 
those  who  are  cultivating  a  barren  religious  senti- 
ment, in  place  of  that  practical  and  living  principle 
which  endeavours  to  bring  itself  into  near  union 
with  God  and  man,  and  to  draw  near  to  one  while 
drawing  near  the  other.  The  man  who  is  busy  in 
the  work  of  religious  preparation  is  sure  to  find 
something  in  these  places  that  aids  him  in  that  en- 
deavour. If  he  loses  his  interest  in  the  services  of 
God's  house,  it  is  not  because  the  wants  of  his  mind 
are  not  met,  but  because  these  wants  are  not  felt  as 
they  ought  to  be.  He  knows  that  it  is  utterly  im- 
possible for  the  mind  to  be  always  excited  ;  original 
views  are  the  rarest  of  all  human  things  ;  eloquent 
discourses  like  those  of  the  great  French  preachers, 
or  the  great  divine  who  lately  passed  away,  sup- 
pose long  seasons  of  leisure.  But  one  really  de- 
sirous of  improvement  can  find  something  to  in- 
terest where  novelty  or  brilliancy  is  not  the  attrac- 
tion. Is  there  nothing  interesting  in  this  fine  sea- 
son ?  It  is  the  same  bright  sun,  there  are  the  same 
colors  on  the  leaves, — the  same  elements  which  gave 
beauty  to  the  first  autumn  after  the  world  began. 
But  who  is  weary  of  the  monotony  of  nature  ?  Who 
11 


122  THE    HOUSE    OF    GOD. 

would  wish  to  exchange  it  for  any  thing  new  ? 
Such  is  divine  truth  to  the  lovers  of  truth,  —  beau- 
tiful in  its  unchangeable  sameness,  beautiful  in  the 
variety  of  its  applications,  always  many,  and  yet 
always  one. 

I  would  take  this  opportunity  to  make  one  or  two 
remarks  on  the  manner  of  conducting  the  services 
of  this  place,  for  my  experience  has  shown  me  that 
some  things  here  might  be  altered  to  advantage. 

The  principal  error  consists  in  requiring  two  ser- 
mons every  Sabbath  from  a  single  preacher.  A  ser- 
mon should  be  a  full  discussion  of  some  important 
moral  or  religious  subject,  on  which  the  writer  should 
put  forth  all  his  strength.  Now  no  man  living  can 
keep  two  such  subjects  upon  his  mind,  during  the 
same  week,  with  so  much  advantage  to  his  hearers 
as  if  he  gave  his  whole  attention  to  one.  Accord- 
ingly it  would  be  a  better  way,  as  it  seems  to  me, 
to  have  the  sermon  in  the  morning,  and  in  the  after- 
noon a  service  of  a  less  elaborate  and  more  popular 
character,  —  perhaps  an  extemporaneous  address,  or 
an  exposition  of  Scripture, — which  would  be  quite 
as  useful  to  the  audience  generally  as  a  regular 
discourse. 

There  is  another  subject  which  concerns  the  order 
and  propriety  of  our  service  in  the  house  of  God, 
on  which  I  again  refer  to  experience  for  the  course 
which  seems  to  me  to  be  the  most  appropriate.  It 
has  become  common  in  some  churches  to  remain  seat- 
ed during  the  prayer.  In  this  service  the  posture 
most  favorable  to  strict  attention  is,  in  my.  opinion, 


THE    HOUSE    OF    GOD. 


123 


the  best.  Standing  is  a  constrained  position  ;  kneel- 
ing is  still  more  so,  and  therefore  likely  to  make  one 
think  of  the  body  when  the  soul  should  be  intently 
engaged  with  itself.  For  this  reason,  the  new  prac- 
tice would  seem  to  be  an  improvement  when  we 
consider  the  uses  of  prayer  to  the  suppliant.  It  may 
appear  to  others  less  reverential ;  but  we  do  not  pray 
to  keep  up  appearances  ;  neither  is  it  supposed  that 
any  one  is  looking  round  in  prayer  to  consider  ap- 
pearances. Let  every  one  be  busy  with  his  own 
heart,  as  every  one  should  be,  and  all  will  appear 
well  in  the  sight  of  Him  with  whom  we  have  to  do. 
Still,  in  so  long  a  service  something  is  gained  by 
change  of  position  ;  in  fact  this  is  necessary,  to  pre- 
vent a  heavy  and  languid  feeling.  Therefore  I  can- 
not help  thinking  that  to  stand  when  God's  praise  is 
sung,  and  to  remain  seated  when  prayer  is  offered, 
is  the  course  which  will  finally  prevail. 

But  I  am  taking  too  much  of  your  time  with  re- 
marks of  this  kind.  Let  us  return  to  the  occasion. 
We  take  possession  of  a  house  which,  though  not 
new,  is  renewed  in  almost  every  part,  having  this 
advantage  over  a  new  one,  that  some  associations 
have  become  connected  with  it  which  the  changes 
will  not  sweep  away.  Let  them  remain,  and  may 
other  and  holier  associations  come  to  deepen  the  im- 
pression with  which  this  place  should  be  regarded ! 
Consider  not  the  fitness  of  its  proportions,  or  the 
exactness  of  its  arrangements,  or  any  of  the  circum- 
stances which  impress  the  eye  ;  for  these  are  things 
of  minor  importance.     Our  great  care  should  be,  that 


124  THE    HOUSE    OF    GOD. 

it  answers  the  purpose  for  which  it  is  set  apart,  — 
that  of  awakening  and  confirming  religious  principle 
in  those  who  worship  within  its  walls.  Without 
this,  the  building  will  cumber  the  ground  ;  with  it, 
it  will  become  in  very  deed  the  house  of  God  and 
the  gate  of  heaven. 


SERMON    XII. 


THE  DISORDERED  MIND. 

FOR  I  AM  FEARFULLY  AND  WONDERFULLY  MADE.  —  Psalm  CXXXix.  14. 

It  may  have  happened  to  you,  in  younger  days, 
to  go  into  some  building  where  complicated  and  ex- 
tensive machinery  was  in  busy  motion.  There  were 
bands  and  wheels  rolling  in  intense  activity  all 
around  you,  but  you  could  not  trace  the  object  of 
their  action,  nor  see  how  they  moved  in  harmony 
with  each  other.  It  was  with  a  perplexed  and  be- 
wildered feeling  that  you  looked  into  the  dark  depths 
of  the  enginery,  for  you  felt  that  the  principle  of  its' 
construction,  and  the  manner  in  which  it  wrought 
out  its  results,  were  far  beyond  your  reach.  And 
while  this  mystery  filled  you  with  wonder,  at  times 
a  heavy  crash  within  the  mass  of  rolling  circles, 
or  a  clang  as  if  axles  and  chains  were  breaking, 
or  a  dash  of  waters  as  if  barriers  were  giving  way, 
filled  you  for  a  moment  with  startling  dread. 

It  was  with  somewhat  such  a  feeling  that  the 

writer  of   this   Psalm   thought   of   the  complicated 

structure  of  man.     He  was  a  thoughtful  observer. 

Careless  spectators  are  seldom  surprised  ;  they  take 

11* 


126  THE    DISORDERED    MIND. 

too  little  notice  of  what  is  before  them  to  distinguish 
the  unusual  from  the  familiar,  the  strange  from  the 
common.  But  when  one  fixes  an  eye  of  intelligent 
discernment  upon  the  things  which  God  has  made, 
the  feeling  of  wonder  begins  to  be  excited.  And 
when  he  considers  his  own  organization,  —  how 
wisely  it  is  formed  for  activity  and  strength,  how 
marvellous  are  its  powers  and  adaptations  for  accom- 
plishing the  purposes  of  its  existence,  with  what 
beautiful  harmony  its  movements  go  on  when  dis- 
ease and  irregularity  have  not  enfeebled  their  power, 
—  there  is  something  graceful,  fine,  and  inspiring  in 
the  contemplation  which  fills  his  heart  with  admir- 
ing praise.  But  when  he  sees  how  easily  this  ma- 
chine is  disordered,  its  energy  destroyed,  its  happy 
activity  broken  up,  and  its  power  subdued  into  help- 
lessness and  woe,  —  how  soon,  without  even  suspect- 
ing his  danger,  man  can  be  a  total  wreck  and  a  help- 
less ruin,  —  he  feels  that  we  are  fearfully,  as  well  as 
wonderfully,  made,  and  that  no  man  can  look 
thoughtfully  into  his  own  frame  without  strong  emo- 
tions of  astonishment  and  dread. 

Whoever  reflects  must  be  powerfully  impressed 
with  the  mechanical  construction  of  the  eye  for  pur- 
poses of  vision,  —  of  the  ear  for  catching  the  most 
delicate  sounds,  —  of  the  limbs  for  that  activity  and 
strength  which  self-preservation  and  subsistence  re- 
quire. He  must  also  be  struck  with  that  graceful- 
ness which  attends  all  the  movements  of  the  sys- 
tem, which  is  always  to  be  seen  in  childhood,  and 
would  be  found  in  later  years,  if  nature  were  not 


THE    DISORDERED    MIND.  127 

distorted  and  resisted.  One  of  the  most  eminent 
members  of  the  medical  profession,  in  ancient  times, 
declared  that  his  tendency  to  atheism  was  corrected 
by  observing  the  structure  of  the  human  hand.  The 
infinite  variety  of  its  motions  —  for  example,  in  mu- 
sic or  in  writing,  the  delicacy  and  precision  of  its 
touch,  the  firmness  with  which  it  holds,  the  force 
with  which  it  applies,  in  any  direction,  just  the  power 
which  is  wanted  —  is  the  result  of  a  mechanical  con- 
struction which  man  can  hardly  understand,  which 
he  cannot  by  any  means  imitate,  with  his  most  per- 
fect ingenuity ;  and  it  convinced  this  great  man 
that  an  intelligent  Being  must  have  designed  it,  for 
to  the  thoughtful  it  will  always  be  a  miracle  of 
power  and  love. 

We  all  know  how  it  is  with  us  when  all  the  parts 
of  that  mysterious  organism,  our  body,  are  exercised 
in  harmony  and  order.  The  world  seems  bright ; 
there  is  sunshine  in  the  breast ;  there  is  a  freedom 
and  airy  lightness  of  feeling,  which  we  call  the  sen- 
sation of  health,  and  which  is  certainly  the  most 
delightful  that  man  ever  knows.  While,  on  the  con- 
trary, if  there  is  any  want  of  action,  any  loss  of 
proportion,  any  jarring  discord  among  the  elements 
of  our  material  nature,  it  brings  pain,  depression,  and 
wretchedness  with  it.  The  head  is  sick  ;  the  heart 
is  faint ;  the  strong  man  bows  himself ;  the  shiver- 
ing chill  makes  the  frame  bend  and  tremble,  or  the 
fever  flows  like  melted  lead  through  the  veins,  and 
the  sufferer  feels  within  himself  that  it  will  take  but 
little  of  those  powerful  influences  to  reduce  him  to 


128  THE    DISORDERED    MIND. 

the  dust.  And  one  of  the  most  fearful  things  con- 
nected with  disease  is  the  thought  of  our  own  in- 
strumentality in  bringing  it  on.  We  cannot  always 
tell  what  to  ascribe  to  our  own  agency,  and  what  is 
the  act  of  God  ;  but  we  know  that  we  have  neg- 
lected the  laws  of  life,  that  we  have  recklessly  in- 
dulged our  appetites  and  passions,  that  we  have  lived 
in  luxurious  repose,  or  overtaxed  our  energies  in  self- 
ish and  worldly  pursuits,  and  we  are  therefore 
haunted  with  the  thought,  for  which  there  may  be 
good  reason,  that  we  have  been  ourselves  the  in- 
excusable and  unpitied  authors  of  our  own  suffering. 
I  place  the  physical  system  foremost,  because  it  is 
more  open  to  the  eye  ;  but  I  hasten  to  observe,  in 
the  second  place,  that  the  mind  is  still  more  fearfully 
and  wonderfully  made.  While  there  is  something 
quite  as  striking  in  its  energies,  there  is  something 
yet  darker  in  its  sorrows  and  retributions.  It  re- 
quires thought  to  comprehend  the  greatness  and 
glory  of  the  power  of  thought.  Consider,  for  ex- 
ample, the  act  of  extemporaneous  speaking,  which 
is  the  most  exciting  and  animated  way  in  which 
the  mind  can  be  exerted.  What  flexibility,  strength, 
and  quickness  there  must  be,  to  enable  the  mind  to 
hold  the  subject  in  all  its  various  bearings  and  rela- 
tions in  full  view,  while  at  the  same  time  it  is  em- 
ployed in  working  out  single  thoughts  into  fulness 
and  finish,  and  not  only  making  them  perfect  by 
themselves,  but  arranging  their  place  and  adjusting 
their  proportion  in  reference  to  the  whole  !  At  the 
moment  that  the  speaker  is  uttering  a  sentence,  he 


THE    DISORDERED    MIND.  129 

has  the  outline  of  the  subject  and  the  memory  of 
what  he  has  said  before  him  ;  and  while  he  puts  the 
present  thought  into  words,  he  must  anticipate  and 
prepare  what  is  to  follow  immediately  after,  —  keep- 
ing the  various  powers  of  attention  and  judgment,  of 
memory  and  imagination,  in  vigorous  action,  and  all 
in  perfect  order,  combining  to  produce  conviction 
in  the  hearer's  understanding  or  to  make  an  impres- 
sion on  his  heart. 

But  inspiring  as  it  is  to  witness  the  triumph  of  in- 
tellectual action,  there  is  here  also  a  dark  side  of  the 
picture  which  we  cannot  contemplate  without  con- 
cern and  dread.  How  little  it  takes  to  destroy  these 
powers,  to  deaden  these  sensibilities  !  Even  where 
there  is  no  conscious  transgression  of  the  laws  of 
life  on  the  part  of  the  sufferer,  should  there  be  but 
a  slight  derangement  of  the  physical  system,  a  dark- 
ness like  that  of  the  thundercloud  may  spread  over 
the  mind,  so  that  it  can  see  nothing  as  it  is.  The 
springs  of  happiness  become  bitter  waters  ;  the  best 
affections  are  changed  into  jealous  passions ;  the 
lightest  touch  seems  to  scrape  over  the  naked  nerves 
of  the  soul ;  what  was  formerly  the  best  enjoyment 
becomes  the  severest  torture,  and  life  is  a  burden 
which  the  poor  wayfarer  of  life  cannot  bear.  He  is 
no  longer  himself;  the  power  of  choice  and  judg- 
ment passes  from  him.  He  is  in  that  state  which 
the  ancients  contemplated  with  fear  and  reverence, 
because,  having  ceased  to  order  his  way  for  himself, 
he  is  not  responsible  for  what  he  does.  His  acts  are 
not  his  own,  but  in  some  awful  and  mysterious  man- 


130  THE    DISORDERED    MIND. 

ner,  which  human  wisdom  cannot  look  into,  he  is 
working  out  the  purposes  of  God.  And  who  can 
look  on  man  in  that  distressing  state  without  a  ten- 
der solemnity  of  feeling,  — without  the  deepest  sym- 
pathy for  that  dreadful  suffering,  in  which  that  life 
for  which  a  man  will  give  all  that  he  hath  becomes 
so  weary  a  load  that  he  turns  with  fond  longing 
to  the  grave  ?  The  clods  of  the  valley  are  sweet 
unto  him  where  he  trusts  to  lay  it  down. 

But  the  most  fearful  thing  about  this  disordered 
state  of  the  mind  is  the  light  which  it  throws,  and 
which  perhaps  it  was  meant  to  throw",  upon  our  fu- 
ture existence.  The  irregular  action  of  the  mind  is 
its  strongest  action  ;  as  the  body  at  such  times  is 
capable  of  mighty  convulsive  efforts,  so  the  mind 
puts  forth  fierce  and  stormy  energies,  which  are  un- 
known in  its  calmer  hours.  And  among  these  we 
find  the  memory  quickened  into  wondrous  life. 
Events  which  took  place  years  ago,  and  seemed  to 
leave  no  trace  at  all  upon  the  mind,  —  words  which 
were  spoken  in  former  days,  and  which  seemed  to 
die  away  in  the  breath  that  gave  them  being,  — 
thoughts  even,  and  emotions,  which  left  no  more 
traces  than  the  last  year's  clouds  have  left  in  the  sky, 
—  are  remembered  at  such  times,  with  perfect  dis- 
tinctness and  reality  in  all  their  parts,  and  come  up, 
too,  with  a  strength  and  vividness  of  impression  like 
things  of  the  present  day  ;  or  rather,  they  come  like 
ghosts  from  bloody  graves,  surrounded  with  terrors 
which  the  living  did  not  possess.  This  shows  that 
the  book  of  remembrance  is  in  each  one's  memory  ; 


THE    DISORDERED    MIND.  131 

it  is  not  now  opened,  but  every  thing  is  deeply  re- 
corded there.  The  history  of  every  sin  is  written 
where  neither  time  nor  tears  can  ever  efface  it.  For- 
getfulness  is  only  for  a  time  ;  the  day  shall  come 
when  every  thing  which  we  would  fain  forget  shall 
stand  out  in  livid  light,  —  seen  as  it  is,  with  no  self- 
delusion  to  blind  us  to  its  guilt.  Conscience,  no 
longer  blinded  by  earthly  influences  and  fully  awake 
to  its  duty,  shall  read  the  full  record  of  our  former 
lives,  and  if  these  have  been  unfaithful  to  Him  who 
made  us,  go  on  to  pronounce  and  execute  our  doom. 
Thus  we  can  imagine  how  the  memory,  quickened 
into  intenser  life,  shall  make  the  mind  itself  a  hell, 
more  terrible  than  eye  hath  seen,  or  ear  heard,  or 
than  ever  entered  the  dismayed  and  shuddering 
heart. 

So,  too,  the  manner  in  which  the  mind  in  its  irreg- 
ular action  clings  to  one  painful  thought  —  though 
in  this  world  it  is  the  portion  of  the  innocent  who 
are  thus  tried,  for  what  reason  we  do  not  know  — 
may  be  a  foreshadowing  of  the  manner  in  which 
remorse  in  a  future  world  shall  distress  the  guilty 
soul.  One  single  dark  and  dismal  thought  before 
the  mind,  from  which  it  cannot  turn  away,  —  always 
confronting  it  as  if  with  a  living  eye  of  stern  and 
gloomy  upbraiding,  —  how  it  bends  and  breaks  down 
the  spirit  into  more  than  midnight  gloom!  No  other 
thoughts  can  call  the  attention  from  that  one.  It 
binds  up  all  within  into  one  concentrated  agony. 
In  the  day  it  cries,  —  "  Would  to  God  it  were  night ! " 
in  the  darkness,  "  Would  to  God  it  were  morning!" 


132  THE    DISORDERED    MIND. 

but  the  day  cometh,  and  also  the  night,  bringing  no 
change  nor  relief.  That  single  thought  seems  an- 
chored like  a  heavy  cloud  over  the  soul ;  no  winds 
have  power  to  sweep  it  from  the  sky.  Though  we 
know  not  what  we  shall  be,  we  do  at  times  have 
glimpses  of  the  fearful  powers  which  lie  folded  and 
sleeping  in  the  soul,  and  which  may  hereafter  come 
out,  with  a  power  which  not  even  this  form  of  men- 
tal suffering,  dire  as  it  is,  will  enable  us  to  imag- 
ine now. 

In  the  third  place,  we  are  wonderfully  and  fear- 
fully made  in  what  respects  our  spiritual  nature. 
Wonderful  it  is  what  peace  and  satisfaction  come, 
even  in  the  most  disastrous  circumstances  of  life,  to 
those  whose  consciences  are  living,  whose  affections 
are  kept  in  action,  and  who  turn  with  cheerful  con- 
fidence to  their  heavenly  Father.  It  is  not  pleasure, 
it  is  not  what  men  call  joy,  I  know  ;  but  it  is  some- 
thing higher,  surer,  and  better.  It  is  a  peace  which 
passeth  the  understanding  of  those  who  have  never 
known  it ;  no  words  can  represent  to  them  this 
beauty  of  holiness  in  such  a  manner  as  it  deserves. 
On  the  other  hand,  fearful  it  is  to  see  into  what  utter 
and  hopeless  insensibility  and  self-delusion  the  soul 
may  fall.  As  the  poor,  superannuated  ruin  of  a  man 
believes  himself  more  able  and  eloquent  than  in  any 
former  day,  so  may  the  person  whose  spirit  is  dead 
within  him  talk  much  of  God  and  eternity,  and 
wonder  at  the  thoughtlessness  of  others,  when  his 
own  religion  is  nothing  but  a  dream,  which  the  eter- 
nal morning  will  dispel.     In  all  this  wide  world, 


THE    DISORDERED    MIND.  133 

abounding  as  it  does  with  things  that  sadden  the 
heart,  there  is  really  nothing  so  fearful  as  the  self- 
delusion  of  those  who  think  themselves  something 
when  they  are  nothing  ;  for  there  is  no  suggestion 
nor  warning  that  can  reach  them.  They  fold  round 
their  hearts  the  Sabbath  garments  of  their  mistaken 
and  untrue  devotion,  and  keep  themselves  in  a  slum- 
ber which  nothing  will  break  but  the  trump  of  the 
archangel  at  the  judgment  day. 

The  question  now  arises,  Why  are  we  thus  fear- 
fully made  ?  In  a  general  view  of  the  subject  it  is 
enough  to  reply,  that  a  fine  and  delicate  organization, 
such  as  God  has  given  to  man,  must  be  easily  dis- 
ordered. An  organization  of  this  kind  is  an  advan- 
tage which  necessarily  brings  evils  along  with  it,  and 
if  we  enjoy  the  one,  we  must  also  have  the  other. 
But  why  these  evils  should  fall  where  they  do,  why 
such  a  weight  of  misery  should  fall  on  one  more 
than  another,  why  one  should  go  through  life  com- 
paratively exempt  from  this  sorrow,  while  another 
is  bowed  down  with  it  to  the  grave,  is  what  we 
know  not.  It  is  not  revealed,  because  it  does  not 
concern  ourselves  and  our  duty.  It  is  enough  for 
us  to  know  that  the  sight  of  these  sufferings  in 
others,  and  the  patient  and  forbearing  kindness 
which  they  require,  give  us  the  opportunity  of  form- 
ing virtues  of  the  highest  order.  When  sympathy 
answers  to  sympathy,  and  love  replies  to  love,  it  is 
comparatively  easy  to  be  tender  and  true.  But  in 
those  dark  hours  of  unaccountable  gloom,  of  im- 
patient displeasure,  of  zealous  and  causeless  suspi- 
12 


134  THE    DISORDERED    MIND. 

cion,  which  sometimes  cloud  the  soul,  it  is  hard 
for  affection  to  sustain  itself  unbroken  to  the  last. 
And  this  is  the  great  triumph  of  our  religion,  that 
it  kindles  those  never-setting  stars  of  encouragement 
and  guidance  in  life's  most  disastrous  hours.  It  em- 
ploys the  instrumentality  of  suffering,  as  the  artisan 
uses  the  furnace-fire,  to  form  in  us  those  affection^ 
which  brighten  the  dreary  path  of  life,  and,  )&*• 
the  pillar  of  fire  resting  on  the  mercy-seat  \\nag- 
the  long  march  was  over,  shall  be  our  light  ana 
glory  in  that  heaven  to  which  the  faithful  go. 

We  see,  then,  that  all  in  this  world,  however 
painful  it  may  be,  and  all  within  ourselves,  though 
our  nature  so  often  suffers,  may  help  forward  the 
great  work  of  preparation.  For  this  purpose  all  is 
wonderfully  made.  As  our  minds  dwell  upon  it, 
we  dismiss  the  fear  ;  but  the  wonder  grows.  So  it 
will  ever  be  ;  our  knowledge  of  ourselves  and  our 
experience  of  life  will  perpetually  increase  our  ad- 
miration of  the  works  and  ways  of  God.  We  may 
submit  ourselves  to  him,  then,  as  a  faithful  Creator, 
whether  he  tries  us  with  suffering  of  the  frame,  with 
anguish  of  mind,  or  heavy  desolation  of  soul.  He 
orders  all  things  well  ;  the  end  is  not  yet.  "  Wait 
on  the  Lord ;  be  of  good  courage,  and  he  shall 
strengthen  thy  heart  :  wait,  I  say,  on  the  Lord." 


SERMON    XIII. 


PREPARATION  FOR  HEAVEN. 

PREPARE    TO    MEET    THY    GOD.  —  AmOS  iv.   12. 

Every  one  knows  that  this  life  is  but  the  child- 
hood of  existence.  If  the  young  will  not  look  for- 
ward and  prepare  for  the  manly  duties  of  life,  it  is 
altogether  absurd  to  expect  that  they  shall  be  re- 
spectable, useful,  and  happy  ;  it  is  next  to  certainty 
that  they  will  be  just  the  reverse  of  all  this.  And 
if  we  who  are  here  to  be  educated  for  another  exist- 
ence, —  we  who  are  so  severe  upon  the  carelessness 
of  the  young,  —  if  we  should  have  it  pressed  home 
on  ourselves  in  return,  —  "  You  say  this  is  a  prepara- 
tory state  ;  where  is  your  preparation  ?  "  —  we  might 
find  it  somewhat  hard  to  reply. 

The  truth  is,  that  a  great  many,  and  not  such  as 
pass  for  bad  men  either,  are  making  no  sort  of  prep- 
aration for  another  life.  In  all  that  respects  this 
world's  gain,  the  eye  of  the  lightning  is  not  sharper 
than  theirs.  Perhaps  in  respect  to  intellectual  im- 
provement they  tax  heavily  the  present  moment  to 
secure  knowledge  in  time  to  come,  and  nothing  can 
exceed  the  thoughtfulness  and  attention  they  bestow 


136  PREPARATION  FOR  HEAVEN. 

in  preparing  the  comfort  of  their  declining  years. 
But  take  one  of  these  deliberate  and  sagacious  men, 
ask  him  what  duty  he  is  doing  because  Christianity 
requires  it ;  ask  what  he  can  truly  say  he  is  doing 
or  has  ever  done  from  a  sacred  sense  of  duty  ;  ask 
him  if  he  is  in  the  habit  of  cross-examining  his  con- 
science when  it  tells  a  flattering  tale  ;  ask  him  if  he 
makes  a  point  of  doing,  not  what  pleases  himself, 
but  what  will  please  God.  If  he  answers  as  he 
would  reply  to  his  own  heart,  if  he  tells  the  truth, 
he  will  confess  to  you  that  he  thinks  of  no  such 
things.  He  is  contented  if  he  preserves  a  good 
moral  character ;  if  he  does  not  materially  injure 
others,  —  or,  in  homely  phrase,  if  he  minds  his  own 
business  and  lets  others  alone,  —  he  is  quite  easy  as 
to  his  last  account  with  God. 

All  this  is  very  well.  Even  though  he  is  not 
tempted  to  do  otherwise,  though  character,  interest, 
and  all  inducements  whatever  lead  him  to  observe, 
and  never  break,  this  line  of  conduct,  we  allow  that, 
as  far  as  it  goes,  it  is  duty,  though  it  implies  a  no- 
tion of  the  importance  and  extent  of  duty  which  is 
extremely  weak  and  low.  But  after  giving  all  the 
praise  due  to  this  conduct,  and  perhaps  a  little  more, 
the  great  question  returns,  What  is  there  in  all  this 
that  you  call  preparation  for  another  existence  ?  All 
this  begins  and  ends  in  the  present  world.  In  all 
this  there  is  nothing  serious,  nothing  devoted,  noth- 
ing high,  nothing  which  could  not  be  done  as  well 
without  Jesus  Christ  as  with  him.  In  fact,  it  all  is 
done  without  him,  and  if  this  is  preparation,  such 


PREPARATION  FOR  HEAVEN.  137 

persons  expect  to  be  saved  without  having  the  least 
regard  for  a  Saviour,  — they  expect  religion  to  save 
them  without  their  paying  any  respect  to  its  laws. 
And  this  is  as  wise  as  to  expect  to  be  restored  to 
health  by  a  medicine  which  they  never  have  taken, 
or  enlightened  by  a  book  which  they  have  never 
read. 

There  is  no  kind  of  doubt  that  many,  and  those 
not  by  any  means  foolish  men,  are  in  error  here. 
They  are  moving  on  in  the  voyage  of  life  as  if  they 
were  sure  of  drifting  to  the  right  harbour.  They 
feel  no  uneasiness  because  they  see  no  land,  and  take 
no  observations ;  —  the  very  thing  that  ought  to 
alarm  them  natters  them  into  confidence,  and  they 
are  not  startled  till  they  dash  upon  the  rock,  or 
founder  in  the  heart  of  the  sea. 

What  is  the  preparation  required  ?  One  would 
suppose  that  there  could  be  no  mistake  here  ;  but 
there  are  great  and  various  errors,  and  they  all  re- 
sult from  that  passion  in  man  to  make  the  terms  of 
acceptance  with  God  as  easy  to  himself  as  he  can. 
Devotion  and  benevolence  constitute  this  prepara- 
tion ;  —  in  better  words,  the  preparation  is  to  love 
God  with  all  the  heart,  and  our  neighbour  as  our- 
selves. 

Devotion,  my  friends,  does  not  consist  in  solem- 
nity. There  is  a  solemnity  which  passes  for  devo- 
tion, which  men  approve  in  themselves  as  devotion. 
Just  as  they  take  it  for  granted,  that  all  who  wear 
black  are  mourners,  do  they  believe,  that  all  whose 
manner  is  gloomy  are  profoundly  religious  at  heart. 
12* 


138  PREPARATION  FOR  HEAVEN. 

I  dread  this  solemnity.  It  is  too  often  artificial,  un- 
consciously made  up  ;  in  its  very  best  estate  it  is 
nothing  more  than  a  feeling,  and  a  feeling  which 
leads  to  no  usefulness  or  improvement,  and  there- 
fore to  no  good.  I  dread  this  solemnity  ;  it  makes 
those  who  have  it  feel  so  saint -like,  while  there  is 
nothing  of  the  Christian  character  under  its  broad 
sable  folds.  The  solemnity  Christianity  wants  is 
that  of  a  heart  deeply  engaged,  interested,  busy,  in 
its  duty.  This  deep  interest  in  the  work  to  be  done 
will  give  an  air  of  solemnity  to  the  brow.  Still, 
there  is  something  beside  the  solemnity,  —  some- 
thing more  and  better  than  the  solemnity  ;  and  as 
habit  makes  the  labor  of  duty  lighter,  the  eye  re- 
gains its  cheerfulness,  and  the  shadow  clears  from 
the  brow.  Away  with  all  solemnity  except  that 
produced  by  an  awful  sense  of  duty,  —  by  the 
weight  of  the  obligations  of  which  the  heart  and 
hands  are  full. 

I  call  that  man  devout  who  feels  and  tries  to  feel 
the  presence  of  God ;  who  is  not  afraid  nor  unwil- 
ling to  have  the  eye  of  God  upon  him,  —  who  rather 
rejoices  in  it,  knowing  that  it  makes  him  more  faith- 
ful ;  who  endeavours  to  conciliate  God,  not  with 
flattery  in  long  and  unmeaning  prayers,  not  by  run- 
ning down  himself  and  human  nature,  but  by  doing 
his  will.  Such  a  man  prays,  to  make  his  requests 
unto  God  ;  such  a  man  praises,  because  praise  is  the 
feeling  of  his  heart ;  but  his  greatest  endeavour  is  to 
bring  his  thoughts  and  deeds  into  subjection  to  the 
Christian  law  ;  and  for  this  purpose  he  asks  himself 


PREPARATION  FOR  HEAVEN. 


139 


often  whether  he  is  doing  right,  —  whether  his  course 
of  life  is  what  it  should  be,  —  whether,  if  the  angel 
of  death  came  this  hour,  he  is  prepared  to  meet 
his  God. 

Devotion  means  devotedness,  readiness  to  do  and 
suffer  every  thing  that  pleases  God.  Devotion  means 
something  more  than  prayer.  There  is  many  a 
prayer  fervent  in  its  utterance  which  has  no  devo- 
tion in  it,  because  there  is  in  the  breast  of  him  who 
makes  it  no  devotedness  to  his  heavenly  Father's 
will.  This  devotion  is  of  our  own  forming,  —  it  is 
not  inspired  ;  the  man  who  is  really  devout  becomes 
so  by  long  meditation  on  the  works  and  character  of 
God.  True,  there  is  devotion  which  attracts  the 
gaze  of  men  far  more  than  this  ;  there  is  devotion 
which  makes  a  show  in  the  path  of  life,  like  the 
glass  fragment  you  see  by  the  way-side  sparkling  in 
the  sun.  You  would  take  it  for  a  diamond  if  you 
had  not  been  deceived  by  it  before.  This  is  not. the 
devotion  which  I  wish  for  you  ;  I  would  have  de- 
vout lips,  but  not  without  devout  lives.  I  would 
judge  of  the  devotion  by  the  life,  and  not  of  the  life 
by  the  devotion. 

Again,  the  benevolence  that  makes  part  of  this 
preparation,  —  it  is  an  active  desire  to  do  good  to 
men.  Mark  those  words  "  active  desire  "  ;  for  the 
mere  desire  is  nothing.  Every  one  wishes  well 
enough  for  the  happiness  of  others ;  every  one  would 
help  the  happiness  of  others  if  he  could  do  it  with- 
out inconvenience  to  himself.  Even  those  who  in- 
jure others,  were  it  not  for  the  temptation  to  injure 


140  PREPARATION  FOR  HEAVEN. 

them,  would  be  ready  enough  to  wish,  and  perhaps 
to  do,  them  good.  Far  am  I  from  believing  that 
good-will  to  others  is  an  uncommon  thing.  No  ;  if 
wishing  would  make  men  what  they  should  be, 
the  whole  world  would  be  Christians.  The  mere 
desire  is  nothing ;  you  can  place  no  dependence 
upon  it ;  the  active  desire  is  a  very  different  thing, — 
as  different  from  the  mere  wish  as  the  spirit  of 
the  selfish  epicurean  from  that  of  the  self-denying 
martyr. 

But  very  often  there  is  a  selfishness  in  the  midst 
of  benevolence.  There  are  those  who  are  willing 
to  do  good,  but  will  do  it  in  their  own  way,  —  there- 
by showing  that  they  are  thinking  quite  as  much  of 
themselves  as  of  others.  Thus,  in  relieving  the  dis- 
tressed, —  for  there  are  persons  distressed,  and  that 
with  no  fault  of  their  own,  —  each  one  is  apt  to  give 
what  he  values  least.  Here  we  must  be  on  our 
guard.  Let  him  who  gives  his  money  give  what 
he  values  more,  his  attentions  or  his  time  ;  let  him 
who  gives  his  services,  if  he  values  other  things 
more,  give  them,  in  order  to  be  sure  that  his  very 
kindness  is  not  selfish,  or  at  least,  that  it  has  in  it 
no  other  selfishness  than  the  manly  and  honora- 
ble desire  of  securing  one's  interest  in  the  future 
world. 

Even  the  benevolent  must  be  on  their  guard ;  they 
are  far  too  apt  to  take  as  much  with  one  hand  as 
they  give  with  the  other.  You  will  sometimes  find 
that  those  who  are  liberal  of  wealth  to  others  wound 
them  with  their  neglect  and  scorn.     You  will  find 


PREPARATION  FOR  HEAVEN.  141 

those  who,  with  a  manner  all  kindness,  encourage 
hopes  of  friendship  which  they  never  intend  to  re- 
deem. You  will  find  those  who  will  sit  night  after 
night  by  the  bedside  of  the  sick,  and  at  the  same 
time  stab  them  with  what  the  Scripture  calls  the 
edge  of  the  tongue.  Therefore  inspiration  tells  us 
to  "be  perfect  and  entire,  wanting  nothing";  then 
we  may  know  whether  we  are  innocent  merely 
because  we  are  not  tempted,  whether  we  are  kind 
from  principle,  or  only  from  feeling.  Mere  feeling 
will  not  face  the  wind  and  tide  ;  mere  feeling  will 
do  good  as  long  as.  it  is  pleasant,  and  no  longer  ;  — 
principle  is  something  worth  having  ;  it  is  patient, 
not  easily  discouraged,  and  enduring. 

One  thing  we  must  guard  against  with  all  our 
might,  —  not  toilet  revengeful  feelings  have  place  in 
the  heart.  They  come  in  disguise.  How  often  you 
hear  those  who  complain  with  no  little  bitterness 
that  others  have  injured  them  say,  that,  for  all  that, 
they  would  do  them  a  kindness  if  they  had  the 
power  !  Still  they  cannot  do  them  the  kindness  to 
wait  for  explanations ;  they  cannot  do  them  the 
kindness  to  put  a  favorable  construction  on  their 
words  and  deeds  ;  that  is,  they  flatter  themselves 
with  thinking  that  they  would  do  the  greater  kind- 
ness, though  they  deny  the  less.  And  suppose  that 
they  would  do  a  kindness  to  their  enemy  ;  —  half 
the  world  would  do  the  same,  and  be  glad  that  they 
had  the  power.  Christian  benevolence  means  a  great 
deal  more  than  this  ! 

I  have  thus  attempted  to  suggest,  in  general  terms, 


142  PREPARATION  FOR  HEAVEN. 

what  is  included  in  the  injunction,  "Prepare  to  meet 
thy  God."  You  may  now,  perhaps,  expect  me  to 
describe  the  meeting  itself.  And  possibly  I  might 
paint  the  end  of  all  things  in  such  a  way  as  to  strike 
the  imagination.  I  might  represent  the  archangel's 
trumpet  sending  its  far  and  stormy  voice  over  land 
and  sea.  I  might  paint  the  dead  outbursting  from 
their  tombs, — crowding  by  millions  round  the  judg- 
ment-seat, with  a  paleness  deeper  than  that  of  death 
on  every  brow.  I  might  represent  the  Son  of  Man, 
with  raiment  shining  like  the  sun,  speaking  in  low 
and  deep  tones  the  sentence  that  makes  every  heart 
cold  with  dismay.  But  if  I  could  do  it,  if  I  could 
make  you  hear  the  thunder  crash  with  which  the 
pillars  of  the  universe  fall,  or  show  you  the  fire 
flashing  out  from  the  earth  and  every  star  till  the 
universe  is  in  flame,  what  purpose  would  be  an- 
swered ?  I  would  rather,  if  I  must  dwell  upon  that 
tremendous  vision,  show  you  the  sinner  who  stands 
solitary  and  apart,  unconscious  of  the  gaze  of  mil- 
lions, seeing  not  the  fire,  hearing  not  the  earthquake 
as  it  murmurs  by,  his  whole  soul  frozen  into  a  fear- 
ful expectation  of  the  judgment  to  come.  But  all 
these  are  terrors  which  may  impress  the  imagination 
without  mending  the  heart.  I  would  have  the  good- 
ness of  God  lead  you  to  repentance  ;  I  would  have 
you  fear  him  now  as  much  as  you  would  fear  him 
in  the  judgment  day. 

I  say,  then,  Prepare  to  meet  thy  God  now  ;  pre- 
pare to  meet  him  in  the  intercourse  of  prayer ;  make 


PREPARATION  FOR  HEAVEN.  143 

your  hearts  such  as  you  are  willing  to  throw  open 
to  him.  He  never  can  be  nearer  than  he  is  now ; 
this  preparation,  if  ever  it  will  be  wanted,  is  wanted 
now.  I  say  again,  then,  In  every  hour  of  life  "  pre- 
pare to  meet  thy  God." 


SERMON    XIV. 


RELIGION   AND   PHILOSOPHY. 

BEWARE    LEST    ANY    MAN    SPOIL     YOU     THROUGH    PHILOSOPHY    AND 

vain  deceit. — Colossians  ii.  8. 

More  properly,  "  Beware  lest  any  man  spoil  you 
through  a  vain,  deceitful  philosophy,"  and  this  was 
the  character  of  most  of  the  wisdom  of  that  day. 
Philosophy  means  the  investigation  of  subjects  with 
a  desire  to  know  all  that  can  be  known  about  them. 
But  the  wise  men  of  that  day,  instead  of  studying 
Christianity  to  learn  the  reasonableness,  the  nature, 
and  the  application  of  its  truths,  employed  them- 
selves in  the  endeavour  to  make  Christianity  harmo- 
nize with  their  own  favorite  systems  ;  and  the  result 
was,  that  the  religion,  as  it  came  mended  from  their 
hands,  retained  very  few  of  its  original  features. 

But  are  we  to  understand  that  philosophical  in- 
vestigation should  not  be  applied  to  the  religion  of 
Jesus  Christ  ?  Most  certainly  not.  This  would  be 
the  same  as  to  say  that  we  must  not  reflect  upon  it, 
we  must  not  study  it,  we  must  content  ourselves 
with  an  unthinking  submission  to  all  its  commands. 
So  far  from  this,  Christianity  seems  rather  to  invite 


RELIGION    AND    PHILOSOPHY.  145 

man  to  consider  it,  to  weigh  its  truths,  to  submit 
them  to  the  most  searching  investigation,  trusting 
that  such  investigation  will  result  in  a  warmer  ad- 
oration of  the  love  in  which  the  religion  began,  and 
a  stronger  desire  to  apply  it  to  the  great  purpose  for 
which  God  sent  it  down. 

It  may  be  said,  however,  that  philosophical  in- 
vestigation of  the  subject  of  religion  has  sometimes 
led  to  infidelity.  I  do  not  believe  it.  There  are 
cases  enough  in  which  infidelity  has  led  to  a  certain 
sort  of  investigation,  and  there  the  result  commonly 
is,  as  might  be  expected,  that  the  previous  distaste 
for  Christian  doctrine  and  duty  is  confirmed.  But 
the  investigation,  as  it  is  called,  amounts  to  nothing 
more  than  a  mere  glance  at  the  outside  ;  the  infidel 
reasons,  not  about  Christianity,  but  about  what  he 
takes  to  be  Christianity,  and  these  are  two  widely 
different  things.  Without  going  to  the  Scriptures  to 
see  what  the  subject  is,  he  assumes  that  he  is  well 
acquainted  with  it  ;  and  then,  knowing  nothing 
about  its  doctrines,  knowing  nothing  about  its  pecu- 
liar feelings,  he  pretends  to  reason  concerning  that 
which  he  takes  no  pains  to  understand,  and  his  in- 
vestigation "  cometh  in  vanity  and  departeth  in 
darkness  "  ;  it  ends  in  prejudice,  as  in  prejudice  it 
began.  If  you  think  I  do  infidels  injustice,  I  would 
ask  you  to  show  me  one  who  ever  seems  to  have 
comprehended  that  the  elements  of  the  religion  are 
love  to  God  and  love  to  man.  These  are  the  foun- 
dation, these  the  leading  principles,  these  run  through 
all  Christianity,  and  yet  not  one  unbeliever  ever 
13 


146  RELIGION    AND    PHILOSOPHY. 

seems  to  have  suspected  it.  Like  the  South  Sea 
Islanders  when  they  first  saw  white  men,  unbeliev- 
ers mistake  the  dress  for  part  of  the  body  and  the 
living  form.  Because  they  disapprove  the  fashion 
of  the  drapery,  which  human  hands  have  idly  and 
needlessly  thrown  round  it,  they  condemn  its  pro- 
portions, and  say  that  it  is  not  of  God. 

But  while  philosophical  investigation  may  and 
should  be  applied  to  the  truths  revealed  by  Chris- 
tianity, there  is  a  spirit  in  which  such  researches 
should  be  conducted,  —  in  fact  must  be  conducted, 
—  in  order  to  lead  to  truth.  Nor  is  this  peculiar  to 
Christianity.  There  is  a  right  spirit  in  which  the 
search  for  knowledge  on  any  subject  must  be  con- 
ducted, or  it  will  lead  to  darkness  rather  than  light. 
And  that  is  the  spirit  of  humility.  Humility  is  the 
low-browed  arch  under  which  one  must  stoop  in 
passing,  but  under  which  he  must  pass  before  he 
can  reach  any  improvement,  whether  in  science, 
morals,  or  religion.  When  this  humility  is  wanting, 
philosophy  —  that  is,  the  true-hearted  love  of  im- 
provement, united  with  the  power  of  gaining  it  — 
is  wanting.  Still,  self-confidence  and  presumption 
often  usurp  and  are  permitted  to  bear  its  name. 
They  formed  the  "  vain,  deceitful  philosophy " 
which  prevailed  in  the  Apostle's  time,  and  which 
probably  will  prevail,  under  one  name  or  another,  to 
the  last  ages  of  the  world. 

Again  :  while  it  is  allowed,  then,  that  Christianity 
is  a  proper  subject  for  philosophical  investigation,  — 
that  is,  a  subject  concerning  which  men  may  think, 


RELIGION    AND    PHILOSOPHY.  147 

and  study,  and  inquire,  —  there  is  also  another  essen- 
tial condition  belonging  to  all  such  investigations, 
namely,  the  acknowledgment  of  the  supreme  author- 
ity of  the  word  of  God.  Jesus  Christ  has  brought 
us  a  revelation  of  truths  which  man  could  never 
have  known  without  him.  I  say,  could  never  have 
known  ;  for  surely  four  thousand  years  were  enough 
to  make  the  experiment.  Through  all  that  long 
tract  of  ages,  there  were  powerful  and  active  minds, 
—  prophets  and  sages  earnestly  desiring  to  look  into 
those  subjects,  and  constantly  finding,  to  their  sorrow, 
that  man  could  never  scale  the  heavens  by  strides  of 
human  wisdom.  And  now  that  the  word  of  God  has 
come,  it  requires  but  little  humility  to  acknowledge 
its  authority  to  be  final  on  subjects  like  this.  In 
fact,  there  is  but  one  alternative  ;  it  must  be  either 
paramount,  commanding  authority  on  these  subjects, 
or  no  authority  at  all.  Accordingly  you  find  that 
men  who  submit  all  their  investigations  to  that  in- 
fallible test  go  on  in  swift  and  sure  religious  im- 
provement, while  those  who  begin  without  a  proper 
reverence  for  that  divine  authority  unsettle  every 
thing  in  their  own  minds,  remove  the  old  landmarks 
without  setting  up  any  other,  and  end  at  last  in  deep 
hostility  to  the  Saviour,  who,  as  long  experience 
proves,  must  either  be  all  or  nothing  in  the  minds 
and  hearts  of  men. 

Since  humility  and  reverence  are  things  essential 
to  all  who  would  study  these  subjects  with  profit 
and  success,  let  us  consider  how  little  reason  there  is 
for  self-reliance,  and  how  much  we  need  that  author- 
ity which  the  religion  of  Jesus  Christ  supplies. 


148  RELIGION    AND    PHILOSOPHY. 

It  is  said  that  there  was  some  light  on  these  sub- 
jects before  Christianity,  and  that  there  might  be 
now,  without  Christianity.  Yes,  there  is  light  at 
midnight  before  the  moon  has  risen,  and  when  the 
stars  are  clouded  ;  there  was  light  in  the  beginning 
of  creation  before  the  sun  appeared  in  the  sky  ;  but 
it  was  faint  and  dim,  it  answered  no  purpose  of 
cheering  nor  guidance.  And  so  it  is  with  the  spirit- 
ual light  which  is  found  where  Christianity  has  not 
come.  No  doubt,  the  inspiration  of  God  has  com- 
municated something  to  every  human  mind ;  no 
doubt,  that,  when  the  spiritual  powers  are  brought 
into  action,  the  ideas  of  God  and  eternity  begin  to 
present  themselves,  and  a  shadowy  line  between 
right  and  wrong  begins  to  be  drawn  ;  but  the  whole 
history  of  man  in  former  ages  shows  that  "  man  by 
wisdom  knew  not  God,"  —  knew  not  any  of  those 
things  which  it  most  concerns  him  to  know.  He 
was  able  to  discern  that  there  was  a  God,  but  not  to 
discern,  in  any  thing  like  its  completeness  and  per- 
fection, the  character  of  God  ;  —  that  was  left  for 
Christianity  to  reveal.  He  was  able  to  look  forward 
to  a  future  life,  but  he  did  not  know  that  it  was  a 
state  of  just  and  perfect  retribution.  Evidently, 
however,  to  know  this  and  no  more,  —  to  know  that 
there  is  a  God  without  knowing  the  relation  in 
which  we  stand  to  him,  and  that  eternity  is  before 
us  without  knowing  what  qualifications  we  need  to 
make  us  happy  for  ever,  —  would  only  be  that  sad 
light  which  makes  darkness  visible,  —  a  knowledge 
which  would  only  make  us  more  keenly  alive  to  our 


RELIGION    AND    PHILOSOPHY. 


149 


need  of  more  knowledge.  After  the  human  mind 
had  reached  forward,  with  intense  longing  and  des- 
perate energy,  to  look  into  these  subjects,  and  all  in 
vain,  God  condescended  to  reveal  them  ;  and  now 
shall  man  show  his  gratitude  by  saying  or  feeling 
that  he  could  have  learned  all  this  of  himself?  Be- 
fore Christianity,  there  was  na  upward  tendency  in 
human  nature  ;  all  was  downward,  —  downward  into 
deeper  corruption,  —  deepest  at  the  moment  when 
the  star  of  salvation  rose.  Surely  whoever  consid- 
ers what  man  was,  and  always,  without  Christianity, 
will  see  that  philosophy  might  as  well  pretend  to 
kindle  a  sun  at  midnight,  as  undertake  to  enlighten 
the  darkness,  relieve  the  spiritual  wants,  and  console 
the  sorrows  of  a  lost  world. 

But,  in  the  second  place,  much  is  said  of  the  light 
within  us,  and  some  appear  to  feel  as  if  it  supersed- 
ed the  necessity  of  any  illumination  from  on  high. 
But  what  is  it  ?  Nothing  but  a  power  of  vision  like 
that  which  resides  in  the  bodily  eye.  It  is  com- 
pared to  the  eye  to  explain  to  us  what  it  is.  Now 
does  any  one  suppose  that  light  originates  in  the 
eye,  or  that  the  power  of  sight  would  help  us  unless 
there  were  light  by  which  we  may  see.  It  is  the 
same  to  the  body  that  a  window  is  to  a  house,  — 
the  avenue  through  which  the  light  passes  in.  And 
this  light  within  is  nothing  but  a  power  of  moral 
sight,  by  which  we  may  discern  the  moral  and  re- 
ligious truths  presented,  and  therefore,  so  far  from 
rendering  light  unnecessary,  would  itself  be  useless 
to  us  if  there  were  not  light  by  which  it  is  enabled 
13* 


150  RELIGION    AND    PHILOSOPHY. 

to  see.  Jesus  Christ  is  the  light  of  the  moral  world. 
He  is  the  source  and  fountain  of  that  light  by  which 
our  spiritual  sight  is  able  to  discern  the  truths  which 
it  is  so  much  concerned  to  know.  Without  him,  the 
spiritual  sight  would  be  as  helpless  as  the  eyes  in 
utter  darkness ;  so  that  the  light  within  us,  of 
which  so  much  is  said,  only  increases  our  depend- 
ence on  him. 

This  being  the  case,  it  is  evident,  that,  except  we 
possess  and  enjoy  the  light  without,  we  can  have  no 
benefit  from  the  light  within,  and  nothing  can  be 
vainer  than  to  speak  of  being  guided  by  this  inner 
light,  to  the  exclusion  of  the  other.  Guided  by  the 
eyesight  without  any  light  from  the  sun  ?  While 
he  shines,  we  may  feel  as  if  we  could  do  without 
him,  but  not  so  when  the  horror  of  deep  darkness 
falls.  Those  who  have  depended  on  the  inner  light, 
without  regard  to  the  other,  have  gone  fearfully 
astray.  It  would  not  be  easy  to  number  the  crimes, 
the  unnatural  and  revolting  crimes,  committed  by 
some  who  thought  they  were  obeying  the  dictation 
of  God  within  them,  and  at  the  same  time  refused 
to  consult  his  revealed  and  written  law.  And  now, 
when  we  hear  men  speak  as  if  this  inner  light  alone 
were  sufficient  for  our  guidance,  it  is  as  if  they 
should  say,  —  "  Break  down  the  lighthouse  which 
for  ages  has  shone  through  the  storms,  conducting 
thousands  of  voyagers  safe  into  the  harbour ;  there 
is  no  need  of  it,  for  each  vessel  can  carry  a  rush- 
light at  its  own  masthead,  and  thus  find  her  way 
through  the  entrance  channel,  winding,  and  rough, 


RELIGION    AND    PHILOSOPHY.  151 

and  rockbound  though  it  is."  She  would  probably 
find  her  way  to  the  bottom,  and  he  who  trusts  to 
the  inner  light  alone  for  guidance  will  also  be  in 
danger  of  shipwreck  of  the  soul. 

But  the  question  arises,  What  is  the  province  of 
philosophical  investigation  in  respect  to  Christianity? 
Certainly  it  is  to  look  into  the  nature  of  the  truths 
which  it  reveals,  that  we  may  learn  their  adaptation 
to  our  nature.  As  soon  as  they  were  first  revealed, 
they  were  known  ;  but  the  wonderful  manner  in 
which  they  were  suited  to  our  wants  and  feelings,  — 
to  every  man's  wants  and  feelings,  —  the  manner  in 
which  they  were  suited  to  the  benefit  and  improve- 
ment of  the  human  race,  —  could  not  be  at  once  un- 
derstood. This  was  a  thing  to  be  studied.  Expe- 
rience threw  light  upon  it ;  observation  threw  light 
upon  it ;  philosophical  investigation  may  throw  yet 
more  light  upon  it,  because  mankind  are  constantly 
passing  into  new  circumstances  and  conditions,  and 
the  beauty  and  power  of  holiness  are  displayed  with 
new  glory.  Many  a  direction  there  is  which  is  con- 
stantly unfolding  itself  more  and  more  to  human 
eyes.  "  Overcome  evil  with  good,"  for  example,  — 
who  could  have  foreseen,  even  a  century  ago,  what 
wonders  it  would  work  in  prisons,  —  how  it  would 
reform  the  whole  process  of  education, — how  wide- 
ly and  successfully  it  would  be  applied  ?  This  is 
what  is  meant  by  the  light  which  is  continually 
breaking  from  the  word  of  God.  Its  truths  do  not 
unfold  themselves  to  unobservant  eyes  ;  the  more 
they  are  studied  and  pondered,  the  more  do  they  dis- 


152  RELIGION    AND    PHILOSOPHY. 

close  for  the  improvement  and  blessing  of  man. 
Here  is  the  province  for  philosophy,  —  not  to  sit  in 
judgment  on  the  doings  of  the  Most  High,  but  its 
field  is  the  spiritual  world  ;  all  its  researches  there 
will  result  in  some  new  discoveries  of  Divine  power 
and  love.  Exhausted  it  never  can  be.  Science  has 
not  yet  travelled  over  a  thousandth  part  of  the  won- 
ders of  the  visible  world,  and  the  moral  and  spiritual 
world  —  so  much  higher  and  more  extended  —  can- 
not be  entirely  explored  so  long  as  eternity  endures. 

Why  is  it,  then,  that  philosophy  has  so  often  be- 
come vain  and  deceitful  when  applied  to  subjects 
like  this  ?  It  is  because  a  heathen  philosophy  is  ap- 
plied to  Christian  truth,  which  is  like  using  a  foot- 
rule  to  measure  distances  in  the  sky.  It  is  because 
men  undertake  to  investigate  without  Christ  what 
they  never  could  have  known  any  thing  of  without 
him.  Under  these  circumstances,  it  can  go  but  little 
way  ;  it  stops  at  the  outside.  It  can  see  nothing 
more  than  a  personification  of  the  laws  of  nature  in 
Him  who  is  above  all,  and  through  all,  and  in  all. 
It  can  see  nothing  more  than  an  ordinary  man  in 
Him  who  spake  as  never  man  spake,  and  who  was 
what  never  man  was.  It  can  see  nothing  more  than 
a  continued  mortal  life  in  the  existence  beyond  the 
grave.  And  how  is  it  possible  to  understand,  or 
hope  to  understand,  the  truths  which  our  Saviour 
has  revealed,  if  we  try  to  search  out,  with  our  inch 
of  candle,  what  it  takes  all  the  blaze  of  the  Sun  of 
righteousness  to  make  clear  to  human  eyes  ? 

The  truth  is,  that  Christ  is  the  Master  and  the 


RELIGION    AND    PHILOSOPHY.  153 

end  of  all  true  philosophy  ;  the  highest  and  happiest 
object  it  can  propose  to  itself  is  to  lead  men  to  him 
for  instruction,  to  confirm  his  authority,  and  to  es- 
tablish his  empire  in  the  hearts  of  men.  If  in  the 
unhappy  confusion  of  controversy  he  has  lost  any 
thing  of  our  reverence,  —  if  he  whose  right  it  is  to 
reign,  and  whose  kingdom  is  within,  has  been  de- 
throned from  his  true  place  in  our  veneration  and 
love,  —  we  are  not  the  persons  by  whom  the  light 
of  God's  word  is  to  be  drawn  forth  and  set  before 
the  eyes  of  men.  Whoever  sincerely  desires  to 
know  the  truth  will  look  for  it  as  it  is  in  Jesus 
Christ,  will  hang  on  his  lips,  will  treasure  his  every 
word.  His  authority  in  the  balance  will  weigh  all 
other  down.  As  for  human  authority,  let  it  be  re- 
garded according  to  its  claims  to  reverence  ;  as  for 
human  claims,  man  may  sift  them  as  he  will,  for 
these  are  in  his  reach  ;  among  these  he  may  hope 
to  discern  the  false  from  the  true.  But  if  he  treats 
Him  whom  God  has  sanctified  and  sent  into  the 
world  merely  as  a  human  being,  and  deals  with  his 
disclosures  as  freely  as  if  they  were  human  things, 
he  does  not  see  things  as  they  are,  —  he  is  not  in 
the  way  to  understand  them  ;  the  very  principle 
with  which  he  begins,  the  first  steps  in  his  in- 
quiry, show  that  they  will  be  for  ever  hidden  from 
his  eyes. 

We  often  hear  the  present  spoken  of  as  the  age 
of  philosophy.  It  is  an  age  of  restlessness,  an  age 
of  change,  an  age  of  action  ;  but  to  call  it  an  age  of 
philosophy  —  that    is,    of    calm,    deliberate    inquiry 


154  RELIGION    AND    PHILOSOPHY. 

after  truth  —  is  doing  it  an  honor  which  it  does  not 
yet  deserve.  An  age  when  innovation  is  regarded 
as  the  same  with  reform,  —  an  age  when  zeal  often 
becomes  mad  passion,  and  indifference  often  passes 
for  liberality,  —  an  age  when  philanthropy  is  so  apt 
to  grow  savage,  and  benevolence  proves  its  love  for 
some  of  the  human  race  by  the  intenseness  of  its 
hatred  to  others,  —  an  age  in  which  the  things  of 
God  are  no  more  respected  than  the  things  of  Caesar, 
—  is  not  an  age  of  philosophy,  of  calm,  sound,  and 
healthy  investigation,  whatever  else  it  may  be.  No 
doubt,  its  result  will  be  good.  The  wafers  may  give 
out  their  virtues  when  they  are  troubled,  but  it  is 
not  the  time  to  analyze  them  to  discover  the  sources 
of  their  healing  virtue.  It  is  an  age  which  signi- 
fies "the  removing  of  those  things  that  are  shaken"; 
the  time  is  come  for  perishable  things  to  perish,  and 
the  world  must  let  them  go.  But  "  those  things 
that  cannot  be  shaken "  will  remain,  and  of  all 
things  the  firmest  and  most  unshaken  is  the  Rock  of 
Ages.  The  floods  may  come  and  the  storms  beat 
against  it,  but  the  Rock  and  all  that  is  built  thereon 
shall  endure. 


SERMON    XV. 


THE  SECRET  OF  HAPPINESS. 


? 


WHO    KNOWETH    WHAT     IS    GOOD     FOR     MAN     IN    THIS     LIFE  f 

Ecclesiastes  vi.  12. 

Few  persons  ever  had  so  much  reason  to  ask  this 
question  as  the  writer  to  whom  this  book  is  ascribed. 
A  sovereign,  powerful  and  magnificent,  richly  gift- 
ed with  all  outward  advantages  that  Heaven  could 
bestow, — eminent  above  all  others  for  his  wisdom, 
but  in  the  application  of  that  wisdom  to  his  life 
irregular  and  unfaithful,  and  therefore  a  restless  and 
unhappy  man,  —  he  had  made  some  great  mistake 
in  life,  and  he  felt  that  it  was  too  late  to  repair  it. 
He  could  only  lament  that  life  was  not  to  him  what 
God  meant  it  should  be,  and  what  it  might  easily 
have  been. 

But  this  error,  and  the  consequences  of  it,  are 
shared  by  numberless  others.  Any  observer  must 
be  struck,  painfully  struck,  with  the  sight  of  man- 
kind,—  each  having  an  existence  which  God  regards 
as  a  blessing  and  a  treasure,  but  not  many  really  re- 
joicing in  it,  not  many  finding  true  happiness  in  it, 
—  all  conscious  that  something  is  wrong  and  some- 


156  THE    SECRET    OF    HAPPINESS. 

thing  wanting,  but  not  knowing  where  the  difficulty 
lies,  —  and  therefore  pressing  on,  in  the  vain  hope 
that  new  accessions  of  those  things  which  have 
brought  no  satisfaction  with  them,  that  some  fortu- 
nate accident,  or  perhaps  that  the  lapse  of  time,  will 
bring  them  that  enjoyment  of  existence,  that  full 
and  deep  enjoyment  of  existence,  which  as  yet  they 
have  never  found.  There  is  not  one  in  ten  thou- 
sand who  understands  the  value  and  blessing  of  life, 
a  great  proportion  of  mankind  considering  it  only  as 
something  better  than  the  grave  or  the  dark  future. 
Having  thus  no  comprehension  of  its  use  and  worth, 
they  suffer  it  to  run  to  waste  ;  they  wait  through 
the  days  of  their  appointed  time  ;  when  death  comes, 
they  shut  their  eyes,  take  the  leap  in  the  dark,  and 
die  at  last  without  wisdom,  as  they  have  lived,  — 
clinging  to  life  only  from  their  dread  of  that  which 
lies  beyond  it. 

You  will  observe,  too,  that  it  is  not  those  who  are 
most  severely  tried  in  life  who  are  most  apt  to  re- 
gard it  thus.  The  heaviest  laden  are  not  those  who 
move  most  heavily  ;  the  disparaging  tone  in  which 
life  is  spoken  of  is  seldom  heard  from  their  lips. 
They  often  seem  to  have  some  revelation  of  the 
value  and  blessing  of  existence  which  is  not  made 
to  others.  They  place  a  higher  estimate  upon  it ; 
darkened  and  desolated  as  life  is  to  them,  they  feel 
more  profoundly  than  ever  before  how  great  a  gift 
it  is.  Their  misfortunes  are  like  the  earthquake, 
which  rent  the  veil  of  the  temple  and  disclosed  the 
golden  sanctuary,  never  opened  to  common  eyes  be- 


THE    SECRET    OF    HAPPINESS.  157 

fore  ;  they  have  learned  "  the  power  of  an  endless 
life,"  —  and  all  is  changed  to  their  view. 

If  it  is  thus  true  of  thousands,  that  they  do  not 
understand  the  worth  of  existence,  if  they  know  not 
what  can  be  made  of  it,  or  what  it  was  meant  to  be, 
there  can  hardly  be  an  inquiry  of  more  general  in- 
terest than  the  one  proposed  in  the  text,  —  "  Who 
knoweth  what  is  good  for  man  in  this  life  ?  " 

And,  first,  in  the  domestic  relations,  who  knoweth 
what  is  good  for  man  ?  This  condition  of  existence, 
assembling  in  small  circles  those  who  are  most  nearly 
connected  with  each  other,  undoubtedly  was  intend- 
ed to  afford  a  retreat,  a  resting-place,  to  which  man, 
when  worn  and  weary  with  the  conflicts  of  troubled 
life  abroad,  might  "flee  away  and  be  at  rest."  The 
very  name  of  home  sounds,  like  a  benediction ;  not 
a  word  ever  passes  from  human  lips  that  goes  so 
directly  to  every  heart.  And  yet  in  how  many 
dwellings  some  element  of  unhappiness  finds  its 
way,  and  changes  all  its  light  and  blessing  into  cold 
and  dreary  gloom !  How  many  a  cottage  looks 
sweetly  under  the  green  arch  of  foliage  that  hangs 
over  it,  inspiring  the  thought  in  the  wayfarer  that 
there  he  should  rejoice  to  spend  his  days  !  How 
many  a  stately  mansion  in  the  city  awakens  the 
feeling  in  those  who  pass  by,  that  the  inmates  must 
surely  be  happy  !  And  yet  a  nearer  acquaintance 
with  such  places  shows  us  pale  anxiety,  sullen  alien- 
ation, fiery  discord,  or  perhaps  sins  more  deadly,  if 
any  such  there  are,  dwelling  in  the  humble  and  the 
splendid  mansion,  and  changing  that  which  we  im- 
14 


158  THE    SECRET    OF    HAPPINESS. 

agined  almost  a  heaven  into  so  near  a  resemblance 
of  hell,  that  any  one  who  had  ever  tasted  its  bitter- 
ness would  be  relieved  to  escape  from  it  into  a  dun- 
geon or  a  grave. 

Yes,  many  examples  there  are  of  those  who  have 
pledged  their  affections  to  each  other,  yet  still  have 
separate  interests,  unsympathizing  feelings,  so  that 
the  relation,  which  might  have  been  a  source  of  the 
purest  happiness,  becomes  a  flowing  fountain  of  woe. 
Many  examples  there  are  of  parents  suffering  more 
from  the  selfish  coldness  of  living  children,  than 
others  who  mourn  for  the  dead.  What  is  worse, 
there  are  parents  who  have  repelled  the  young  affec- 
tions of  their  children  by  their  sternness  or  severity, 
and  thus  have  done  them  an  injury  which  they 
never  can  repair.  Many  examples  there  are  of 
brothers  or  sisters  indulging  bitter  passions,  either 
selfishly  indifferent  to  each  other,  or  selfishly  exact- 
ing, till  they  spread  a  winter  of  discontent  and  sor- 
row in  the  places  where  they  dwell.  And  who  will 
show  what  is  good  for  those  in  whom  life  is  thus 
depraved  and  perverted  ? 

The  common  resort  is  one  which  does  not  reach 
the  disorder  to  which  it  is  applied.  It  is,  in  the 
young,  successive  plans  of  transient  pleasure,  which, 
however,  they  cannot  truly  enjoy,  because  they 
must  carry  themselves,  that  is,  their  discordant  pas- 
sions, along  with  them  wherever  they  go.  Per- 
sons farther  advanced  in  life  think  to  find  relief  by 
extending  their  accommodations,  —  by  making  im- 
provements in  the   grounds  about  the  mansion,  or 


THE    SECRET    OF    HAPPINESS.  159 

more  tasteful  arrangements  within  ;  as  if  whiting  the 
outside  of  a  sepulchre  would  remove  its  dreariness 
and  gloom.  The  sorrow  remains  heavy  and  cold  as 
ever,  and  nothing  can  be  done  to  relieve  it  till  the 
heart  awakes  to  the  profound  significance  of  the 
word  which  inspiration  most  delights  to  speak, — till 
love,  that  word  of  power,  is  learned  by  heart ;  and 
then  no  miracle  ascribed  of  old  to  charm  or  spell 
ever  approached,  in  the  greatness  and  suddenness 
of  its  changes,  to  the  wonders  love  can  do.  He 
finds  that,  in  the  only  true  sense  of  the  expression, 
his  love  must  begin  at  home.  Every  kind  and 
amiable  feeling  cherished  in  his  own  heart  is  felt 
in  the  hearts  of  others  ;  he  is  not  obliged  to  exert 
an  influence  upon  them  ;  it  is  not  he,  but  the  love 
which  inspires  him,  which  subdues  their  passions, 
softens  their  unkindness,  and  brings  their  feelings 
into  sympathy  with  his  own.  Having  the  spirit 
of  love  within,  he  may  trust  to  it  to  make  them 
feel  its  power  ;  as  the  keeper  of  the  light-house  has 
only  to  kindle  the  lamp,  and  it  will  cause  itself  to 
shine,  guiding  the  course  and  rejoicing  the  hearts  of 
travellers  on  the  dark  sea. 

If  we  turn  next  to  active  life,  whether  busy  or 
social,  we  see  there  also  the  same  evidence  that 
some  great  mistake  has  been  make.  The  world, 
that  is,  the  community  of  men  whom  we  call  the 
world,  has  a  prevailing  expression,  like  a  single  hu- 
man face  ;  and  that  expression  is  restless,  careworn, 
discontented.  The  lines  of  peace  and  repose  are 
never  to  be  traced  there,  any  more  than  on  the  sur- 


160  THE    SECRET    OF     HAPPINESS. 

face  of  the  ocean.  There  is  something  which  tells, 
as  plainly  as  words  could  say  it,  that  mankind  have 
not  found  what  they  are  seeking  for  ;  and  there  is 
no  encouragement,  even  to  themselves,  that  they  ever 
will  find  it  in  the  wayward  paths  which  they  tread. 
They  are  sensible  of  the  difficulty  ;  they  are  deeply 
conscious  of  the  want  ;  but  the  remedy  for  this  pre- 
vailing uneasiness  they  do  not  see.  Some  make  ex- 
periment of  recreations,  in  which  they  carry  about 
the  burden  of  their  cares,  not  knowing  how  to  lay 
them  down  :  others  try  change  of  circumstances,  as 
if  outward  arrangements  could  of  themselves  effect 
a  change  within  ;  while  by  far  the  greater  number, 
seeing  no  other  resort,  plunge  more  deeply  into 
worldly  cares,  thus  increasing  the  pain  which  was 
heavy  enough  before. 

Will  no  one  stand  still  and  hear  Christianity  when 
it  says,  —  "  This  is  the  way  ;  walk  ye  in  it  "  ?  Is 
the  strain,  sweet  as  angels  use,  in  which  it  speaks  of 
love,  always  to  be  unheard  and  unregarded  ?  Some- 
times there  are  those  who  half  awake  to  the  com- 
prehension of  the  truth,  that  they  can  serve  them- 
selves best  by  serving  others.  Startled  with  the 
discovery,  they  tremble  at  their  former  selfishness  ; 
they  dash  hastily  into  any  plan  of  benevolence  that 
stands  nearest.  Their  zeal  arises  from  fear  and  self- 
upbraiding,  not  from  love  in  the  heart  ;  and  it  is 
manifested,  not  by  their  devotion  to  humanity,  but 
their  fierce  reproaches  against  those  who  do  not  go 
with  them.  Hence  proceed  the  savage  philanthro- 
pists, the  unregenerate  reformers,   the   unsanctifled 


THE    SECRET    OF    HAPPINESS.  161 

Christians,  who  say  so  much  and  accomplish  so  lit- 
tle ;  —  accomplish  little  because  they  carry  their 
worldly  passions  with  them  into  their  new  course  of 
life,  and  are  awakened  only  to  the  sin  and  danger 
of  selfish  indifference  to  prevailing  evils,  without 
having  learned  the  spirit  of  their  Master,  —  with- 
out entering  into  sympathy  with  love,  the  only  pow- 
er by  which  evil  in  ourselves  or  others  is  ever  to  be 
done  away. 

There  is  nothing  in  which  our  want  of  faith  in 
Jesus  Christ  appears  more  plainly  and  sadly  than  in 
this  unbelief  in  the  power  of  love.  He  tells  us  that 
it  is  the  only  secret  of  happiness,  the  only  element 
of  power ;  it  is  the  mystery  of  heaven,  which, 
though  revealed  and  open,  is  left  a  mystery  still. 
He  assures  us  that  the  only  way  to  satisfy  the  wants 
of  our  immortal  nature,  and  to  remove  the  uneasi- 
ness and  distaste  of  life,  —  the  only  possible  way  to 
reach  that  contented  peace  and  serene  repose  which 
are  God's  divinest  blessings,  — is  to  cherish  the  spirit 
of  love ;  not  as  it  is  abridged  and  misinterpreted  by 
our  own  selfish  passions,  but  as  it  was  set  forth  in 
the  words,  and  shone  unclouded  in  the  life,  of  our 
heavenly  Master.  But  how  few  there  are  who  be- 
lieve him  !  While  thousands  are  sadly  and  earnest- 
ly asking,  —  "  What  is  good  for  man  in  this  life  ?  " 
there  is  not  one  in  a  thousand  who  receives,  or  un- 
derstands, or  acts  upon  his  reply.  And  this  world 
never  will  be  radiant,  as  it  was  meant  to  be,  with 
happiness  and  praise,  till  his  favorite  word,  "  love," 
14* 


162  THE    SECRET    OF    HAPPINESS. 

in  its  fulness,  and  depth,  and  power  of  meaning, 
gains  a  welcome  in  the  hearts  of  men. 

Again:  the  religious  life,  —  how  widely  its  true 
character  is  often  misunderstood  !  The  great  pro- 
portion of  those  who  live  in  Christian  lands  take 
shelter  from  the  remonstrances  of  their  conscience 
behind  certain  sacred  forms.  To  these  observances 
they  point  as  the  signs  that  they  are  faithful,  when 
these  may  be  only  easy  substitutes  for  faithfulness 
and  devotion,  fatally  misleading  the  soul.  What  is 
it  to  attend  the  service  of  devotion,  if  only  the  form 
is  present,  while  the  mind  and  heart  —  while  the  man 
—  is  away  ?  Even  those  who  come  to  the  Lord's 
table,  and  openly  profess  to  be  his  followers,  often 
find  comfort  in  the  thought  of  making  this  profes- 
sion, when,  all  the  while,  it  is  not  a  true  expression 
of  their  feeling,  —  it  is  a  sign  of  that  which  is  not 
within  ;  they  make  no  effort  to  become  what  they 
declare  it  is  the  desire  of  their  hearts  to  be.  These 
outward  manifestations,  these  solemn  forms,  may  be 
the  means  of  cherishing  religious  principle  ;  but 
when  they  are  made  the  substitutes  for  it,  the  whole 
becomes  a  delusion  ;  it  is  believing  a  lie. 

There  are  those,  too,  who,  in  asking  what  is  good 
in  the  religious  life,  turn  to  the  past,  not  concerning 
themselves  with  their  present  character,  but  rejoic- 
ing to  think  of  some  former  transitions  of  feeling 
which  they  have  passed  through.  But  in  most 
cases,  these  changes,  like  the  passage  of  the  Red 
Sea,  only  bring  men  to  the  edge  of  their  field  of 
duty  and  trial ;  they  have  still  to  struggle  painfully 


THE     SECRET    OF     HAPPINESS. 


163 


through  the  wilderness,  in  order  to  reach  the  prom- 
ised land.  Besides,  whence  this  reliance  on  past 
states  of  character  ?  The  question  is,  What  are  we 
now  ?  Our  former  emotions  no  more  describe  us  as 
we  are  now  in  the  sight  of  God,  than  the  weather- 
signs  of  the  last  year's  almanac  apply  to  the  present 
spring.  I  have  known  those,  who,  after  going 
through  a  sudden  change,  suddenly  changed  back 
again  without  knowing  it.  Nay,  it  is  not  an  uncom- 
mon thing  for  a  sudden  relapse  to  follow  a  sudden 
restoration.  Appearances  are  kept  up,  the  forms  are 
regarded,  the  words  are  solemn,  but  the  heart  is 
where  it  was  before.  No,  not  where  it  was  be- 
fore ;  for  it  will  never  be  so  easy  to  be  impressed 
again. 

In  truth,  nothing  is  to  be  depended  upon  as  a  sign 
of  the  religious  life  but  love  ;  without  it,  you  are 
nothing.  Indulge  any  jealousy,  any  suspicion,  any 
unkind  feeling  to  any  being  whatsoever,  and  you 
have  not  the  Saviour's  spirit.  You  must  also  have 
a  strong,  filial  feeling  of  love  to  your  heavenly  Fa- 
ther ;  for  unless  you  can  receive  gratefully  what  he 
sends  you,  and  rejoice  in  him  under  all  circumstan- 
ces and  changes,  you  have  not  that  trust  and  con- 
fidence which  are  the  beauty  of  holiness,  —  the  joy 
and  glory  of  a  faithful  son.  Alas  that  the  great 
change  which  turns  the  heart  towards  its  Father 
should  have  been  presented  in  a  manner  so  mechan- 
ical, so  formal,  so  much  more  full  of  profession  than 
of  feeling,  that  the  voice  which  calls  us  to  repen- 
tance finds  no  answering  emotions,  no  right  under- 


164  THE    SECRET    OF    HAPPINESS. 

standing  of  its  summons,  no  glad  and  grateful  up- 
rising of  all  within  to  do  reverence  to  its  God  ! 

O,  when  shall  we  understand  the  deep  and  serious 
meaning  of  life  ?  When  will  it  dawn  upon  us  what 
life  may  be  made,  and  what  God  intended  it  should 
be  ?  When  we  see  the  spring  coming  forth  in  glory 
and  love,  when  we  feel  its  breathing  incense,  and 
hear  the  rich  music  of  its  voice  in  the  morning  sky, 
are  we  not  impressed  with  the  difference  —  the  fear- 
ful difference  —  between  the  rich  loveliness  of  awak- 
ening nature,  and  the  barren,  heavy  chillness  which 
prevails  in  so  many  hearts  ?  This  is  not  life  ;  many, 
many  there  are  who  have  not  begun  to  live.  They 
move  and  have  a  being  ;  but  the  treasures  of  feel- 
ing, the  glorious  endeavours,  the  warm-hearted  affec- 
tions, which  form  the  true  charm  of  existence,  they 
do  not  in  the  least  understand.  How  many  will 
die  without  ever  having  lived  !  How  many  will  see 
with  surprise  and  sorrow,  when  they  reach  another 
existence,  how  much  they  might  have  done,  how 
much  they  might  have  enjoyed,  how  much  they 
have  lost,  in  those  days  of  mortal  existence  which 
can  return  no  more  ! 

Here  we  must  feel  how  much  depends  on  our- 
selves. If  we  turn  to  God  with  filial  confidence, 
we  shall  find  happiness  flowing  into  our  hearts  like 
sunbeams,  waking  all  within  into  glorious  joy,  dis- 
solving the  ice  of  our  selfishness,  and  calling  new 
and  beautiful  affections  into  life  within,  like  the  ver- 
dure and  flowers  of  spring.  And  if  we  can  only 
turn  affectionately  to  the  beings  that  surround  us, 


THE    SECRET    OF    HAPPINESS.  165 

we  shall  be  struck  with  astonishment  how  the  world 
of  humanity,  that  now  looks  desert-like  and  dreary, 
opens  its  treasures  of  glory  and  love  to  our  souls. 
Do  not  treat  it  as  a  fancy.  The  words  are  true,  for 
they  are  God's.  Whoever  will  make  the  experi- 
ment, in  good  faith  and  with  the  heart,  will  confess 
that  he  finds  happiness  beyond  his  youthful  dreams. 
If  any  would  know  what  is  good  for  him  in  life,  it 
is  this,  —  to  love  God  as  his  Father,  and  the  beings 
around  him  as  his  brethren.  Let  him  do  what  is 
here  required,  and  he  soon  will  wonder  at  his  long 
insensibility  ;  he  will  ask  where  all  these  treasures 
of  feeling  have  been  hidden  ;  he  will  be  lost  in 
shame  for  his  hewing  out  so  many  cisterns,  when 
the  waters  of  life  were  all  the  while  flowing  un- 
tasted  at  his  feet. 


SERMON    XVI. 


OFFENCES  OF  THE  TONGUE. 

IF   ANY    MAN    OFFEND   NOT    IN    WORD,  THE    SAME    IS  A  PERFECT   MAN, 
AND   ABLE   ALSO   TO   BRIDLE   THE   WHOLE   BODY.  —  James  iii.  2. 

Any  one  who  reads  the  Scriptures  for  his  own 
personal  improvement  is  often  struck  with  this,  that 
the  sacred  writers  attach  the  most  serious  importance 
to  duties  of  which  men  make  but  little  account. 
So  here  ;  one  who  knows  how  lightly  Christians 
regard  the  duty  of  not  offending  in  word  is  im- 
pressed with  the  solemnity  with  which  the  Apostle 
treats  the  obligation, — looking  upon  the  whole  char- 
acter as  concerned  in  it ;  for  he  says,  whoever  is 
faithful  in  this  respect  is  a  thorough  man,  strong  in 
self-mastery,  —  equal  to  all  the  duties  of  life. 

He  considers  faithfulness  or  unfaithfulness  in  this 
respect  as  a  sure  indication  of  the  presence  or  want 
of  Christian  principle  ;  —  yes,  the  surest,  for  it  is 
only  in  unguarded  hours  that  his  character  appears 
precisely  as  it  is.  In  most  actions  there  is  some  de- 
liberation ;  —  not  much,  but  far  more  than  in  our 
words.  The  latter  flow  carelessly  and  unthought  of 
from  the  tongue  ;  they  come,  as  is  said,  from  the 


OFFENCES    OF    THE    TONGUE.  167 

overflowing  of  the  heart.  If  we  could  see  the 
thought,  we  should  see  the  character  in  its  exact 
form,  color,  and  bearing ;  but  this  is  for  the  eye  of 
God  alone.  We  are  compelled  to  look  at  the  out- 
ward appearance,  and  there  is  nothing  in  the  out- 
ward appearance  which  gives  us  a  truer  revelation  of 
what  is  within  than  the  words.( 

This  Apostle  also  calls  our  attention  to  the  effect 
which  the  management  of  the  tongue  has  upon  the 
life.  It  is,  he  says,  as  the  bit  to  the  horse  or  the 
rudder  to  the  vessel  ;  it  determines  which  way  we 
shall  go.  Thus  he  thinks  that  a  man's  course  is  not 
only  indicated,  but  also  shaped,  by  his  conduct  in 
this  respect.  And  really,  when  we  consider  how 
men  talk  themselves  into  any  thing,  —  how,  by  say- 
ing a  thing  often,  they  come  to  believe  it,  however 
false  it  may  be,  —  how  easily  they  become  insensible 
to  the  shame  and  danger  of  any  thing  which  they 
constantly  defend,  —  and  how  many  intrench  them- 
selves behind  a  cloud  of  words,  when  hard  pressed 
by  their  conscience  or  the  charges  of  other  men,  — 
we  can  see  how  it  should  be  so ;  we  can  see  a  man's 
words  may  be  a  determining  power,  not  only  show- 
ing what  he  is,  but  making  him  what  he  is  to  be  for 
this  world  and  the  other. 

There  is  another  view  which  he  takes  of  the  sub- 
ject, which  is  new  and  strange  to  many.  He  says 
that  harsh  and  bitter  language  cannot  come  from  a 
good  heart.  Men  sometimes  appear  to  think  other- 
wise ;  —  they  think  the  heart  may  be  good  and  kind 
when  the  words  are  harsh  and  severe.     But  not  so 


168  OFFENCES    OF    THE    TONGUE. 

the  Apostle  ;  he  says,  the  same  fountain  does  not 
send  forth  salt  and  fresh  water  ;  however  full  and 
flowing  the  fresh  fountain  may  be,  if  a  brackish 
spring  flows  into  it,  it  takes  but  little  to  spoil  the 
whole  for  the  use  of  man.  The  wayfarer  perishing 
with  thirst  comes  to  it  with  hope  and  pleasure,  but 
turns  away  with  a  heavy  heart. 

But  let  us  look  a  little  more  nearly  at  some  of 
those  offences  of  the  tongue  which  the  Apostle  con- 
siders so  dangerous  to  the  souls  of  men. 

First,  there  are  those  sharp  and  angry  words  of 
which  we  hear  so  many  in  the  world.  '  "  Thou  shalt 
love  thy  neighbour  as  thyself,"  is  the  Christian  com- 
mand, which  all  profess  to  obey  ;  —  but  what  a  com- 
mentary on  it  may  be  found  in  the  intercourse  of 
Christians  with  each  other?  How  often  do  we  see 
the  flashing  eye  and  the  cheek  flushed  with  passion, 
and  hear  the  most  savage  and  bitter  retorts  and  replies 
from  lips  which  are  also  opened  in  prayer  to  God,  — 
how  sincerely,  how  acceptably,  we  must  leave  it  for 
eternity  to  tell !  Men  think  very  little  of  these 
things  ;  the  passion  subsides,  and  they  feel  as  if  all 
was  the  same  as  before.  But  no.  It  is  not  the 
same  as  before.  There  is  mischief  done  more  than 
meets  the  eye.  As  each  one  of  these  autumnal 
storms  affects  the  foliage  and  hurries  on  the  wintry 
desolation,  does  each  and  every  storm  of  passion 
leave  much  unseen  injury,  though  perhaps  few  vis- 
ible traces  in  the  heart.  How  easily  men  delude 
themselves  on  this  subject !  After  one  of  these  ex- 
plosions   they   become    reconciled,    and    think    that 


OFFENCES    OF    THE    TONGUE.  169 

those  whom  they  have  injured  forgive  and  forget. 
But  no  ;  to  forgive  is  one  thing,  to  forget  is  another ; 
perhaps  they  do  forgive,  but  they  do  not  forget. 
Other  injuries  may  be  forgotten,  new  acts  of  friend- 
ship efface  the  memory  of  former  wrongs,  but  the 
wound  given  by  the  sharp  edge  of  the  tongue  does 
not  heal  over.  If  you  have  ever  spoken  contempt- 
uously of  any  one,  and  think  that  he  has  forgotten 
it,  you  will  find,  that,  although  he  may  treat  you 
kindly,  he  remembers  such  things  longer  than  you. 

It  is  impossible  to  overestimate  the  injury  which 
is  done  by  these  hasty  excesses.  Human  beings  are 
connected  with  each  other  by  many  fine  and  del- 
icate ties  ;  and  this  flame  of  hasty  anger  burns  them 
like  tow.  At  every  flash,  some  of  them  snap  asun- 
der, and  there  is  no  power  that  can  replace  them. 
Thus  it  is  with  parents  and  children,  with  husbands 
and  wives,  with  brothers  and  sisters,  with  friends 
and  neighbours  ;  —  the  bands  of  love  which  should 
unite  them  are  gone, — burned  away  by  these  quick 
fires  of  passion.  What  matters  it  if  the  fire  is  out  ? 
what  has  been  consumed  cannot  be  restored  from  its 
ashes. 

Again  :  there  is  a  sort  of  violent  language  where 
there  is  not  much  anger,  but  rather  malice  and  bit- 
terness strongly  felt  and  strongly  expressed,  and, 
strange  as  it  may  seem  considering  what  an  open 
and  presumptuous  offence  it  is,  indulged  in  without 
the  least  consciousness  of  sin.  There  is  a  tendency 
to  extravagance  and  excess  of  every  kind  at  the 
present  day.  You  see  it  in  men's  movements  ;  you 
15 


170  OFFENCES    OF    THE    TONGUE. 

hear  it  in  their  words  ;  every  epithet  which  they 
use,  in  the  most  trifling  matters,  is  always  in  the 
superlative  degree.  If  they  have  not  met  a  friend 
for  some  time,  they  call  it  an  age  ;  if  they  praise 
another,  they  exalt  him  to  the  skies  ;  if  they  would 
censure,  they  degrade  him  in  the  same  proportion. 
And  when  they  come  to  discussions  on  subjects  in 
which  they  are  interested,  they  not  only  have  the 
same  excess  in  the  statement  of  their  opinions;  their 
partialities  and  aversions  are  also  expressed  in  the 
same  high-colored  language,  which  always  oversteps 
the  strict  line  of  truth,  and  does  outrageous  injustice 
to  those  who  oppose  them,  representing  them  as  lost 
to  every  virtue  and  deep  in  every  sin.  How  little 
moral  sensibility  there  is  in  relation  to  this  subject 
appears  from  the  manner  of  some  who  think  it  a 
crime  to  "  smite  with  the  fist  of  wickedness,"  but 
indemnify  themselves  for  this  forbearance  by  using 
the  hardest  terms  of  reproach  which  the  language 
affords  ;  —  as  if  the  bands  of  love  bound  nothing  but 
the  hands ;  as  if,  not  striking  with  the  sword,  they 
might  strike  the  harder  with  the  edge  of  the  tongue. 
And  while  they  indulge  to  the  utmost  in  this  way 
their  resentment  and  revenge,  they  conceive  that 
they  are  following  Him,  who,  when  he  was  reviled, 
answered  not  again. 

The  most  painful  exhibition  we  ever  see  of  this 
kind  of  violent  language  is  witnessed  in  the  excit- 
ing times  of  party.  To  this  the  Apostle's  strong 
terms,  "  earthly,  sensual,  devilish,"  would  most  fitly 
apply.     If  the  things  which  come  out  of  the  mouth 


OFFENCES    OF    THE    TONGUE.  171 

defile  a  man,  surely  our  land  is  defiled  beyond  the 
power  of  the  elements  to  cleanse  it  by  this  flood  of 
slander  and  abuse  which  pours  out  from  the  thou- 
sand and  ten  thousand  mouths  of  party.  There  is 
something  appalling  in  this  cannibal  spirit,  perfectly 
unscrupulous,  perfectly  hateful,  in  which  so  many 
indulge  with  perfect  unconsciousness  of  their  guilt 
and  danger,  though  to  a  superior  being  who  listened 
to  their  voice  it  would  seem  as  if  the  world  had 
broken  entirely  loose  from  the  moral  government 
of  God. 

In  the  intercourse  of  social  life  there  are  many 
things  which  show  how  difficult,  and  yet  how  ne- 
cessary, it  is  to  apply  religious  principle  to  the  words ; 
—  difficult,  because  we  do  not  think  what  we  are 
doing.  But  we  ought  to  think,  it  is  our  duty  to 
think,  what  we  are  doing,  and  the  neglect  of  this 
duty  is  the  last  thing  that  we  can  plead  in  excuse 
for  injurious  language,  or  any  other  sin.  Stern  lan- 
guage that  of  our  Saviour,  —  "  For  every  idle  word 
that  men  shall  speak,  they  shall  give  an  account  in 
the  day  of  judgment."  Whatever  we  may  now 
think  of  it,  we  shall  find  that  his  warning  is  true. 
Any  observer  of  social  life  must  know  that  "  idle  " 
words  are  almost  always  injurious  words  ;  such  con- 
versation is  very  apt  to  turn  upon  the  follies,  infirm- 
ities, and  sins  of  others.  There  are  many  who  en- 
joy ridicule  cast  upon  others,  and  many  also  who 
are  ready  to  cast  it,  showing  off  their  penetrating 
discernment  and  power  of  sarcasm,  without  reflect- 
ing   that    they    are    guilty    of    inhumanity,  —  that 


172  OFFENCES    OF    THE    TONGUE. 

every  indulgence  of  the  kind  is  a  sin  against  God 
and  his  law  of  love  ;  without  reflecting,  too,  that 
every  indulgence  of  the  kind  is  exerting  a  petrifying 
power  upon  their  own  hearts.  The  Apostle  main- 
tains that  such  indulgence  is  evidence  and  cause  of 
a  bad  heart.  Is  he  not  right  ?  You  may  make 
yourself  acceptable  to  your  associates  by  entertain- 
ing them  in  such  a  manner  ;  you  may  be  pleasant 
when  you  are  pleased,  —  pleasant  to  those  with 
whom  you  are  pleased  ;  for  even  the  publicans  can 
go  as  far  as  this.  But  the  heart  from  which  such 
things  proceed  is  a  bad  heart  to  carry  into  eternity, 
—  a  bad  one  to  throw  open  at  the  judgment-seat  of 
Christ. 

There  are  many  ways  in  which  the  law  of  love  is 
broken  in  the  social  intercourse  of  life,  broken  by 
that  thoughtless  malice  which  is  so  common,  but 
which,  however  thoughtless,  is  malice  still.  Strange 
that  men  should  consider  it  an  excuse,  to  say  they 
did  not  think  what  harm  they  were  doing !  Intox- 
ication is  no  excuse  for  transgression.  It  rather  adds 
the  guilt  of  drunkenness  to  that  of  the  other  sin. 
So  thoughtlessness  itself  is  an  offence,  where  the 
rights  and  claims  of  others  are  concerned,  and  there 
is  no  principle  of  morals  which  can  possibly  make  it 
a  palliation  for  any  other  sin.  Whoever  retails  the 
floating  reproach,  whoever  puts  a  bad  construction 
on  the  conduct  of  another,  whoever  deals  bitterly 
and  harshly  with  the  character  of  others,  may  do  it 
thoughtlessly,  but  still  he  is  responsible,  perhaps  the 
more  so  ;  for  if  he  was  conscientious,  he  would  re- 


OFFENCES    OF    THE    TONGUE. 


173 


fleet,  and  never,  except  in  cases  of  necessity,  say  that 
which  may  injure  another's  feelings,  reputation,  or 
peace.  It  is  true  that  unmerited  slander  dies  away  ; 
but  no  thanks  to  him  who  originates,  nor  to  him 
who  repeats  it.  Inspiration  compares  him  to  one  who 
scatters  firebrands  in  sport.  The  rain  of  heaven 
may  extinguish  the  fire  which  the  incendiary  kin- 
dles, but  he  is  as  guilty  as  if  the  building  were 
burned  down.  He  who  spreads  or  fans  the  flame 
is  as  guilty  as  he  who  kindles  it  ;  he  who  assists  to 
circulate  the  injurious  word  must  bear,  as  well  as 
its  author,  the  penalty  of  the  sin. 

There  is  one  way  in  which  unmeasured  evil  is 
brought  into  social  life.  It  is  by  repeating  to  a 
friend  the  evil  that  has  been  said  of  him  by  anoth- 
er. Any  one  who  has  had  much  experience  of  life 
knows  that  such  reports  are  never  to  be  trusted.  It 
is  very  seldom  you  hear  what  was  said  ;  you  never 
hear  it  as  it  was  said.  The  person  who  is  unprin- 
cipled enough  to  bring  you  the  report  which  can  oc- 
casion nothing  but  ill-feeling  is  unprincipled  enough 
to  be  a  liar  ;  —  not  deliberate,  perhaps,  but  we  must 
remember  that  whoever  is  careless  of  the  truth  is 
already  a  liar.  I  have  known  those  who  felt  deeply 
wronged  in  consequence  of  reports  of  what  a  neigh- 
bour had  said  against  them ;  when,  all  the  while, 
instead  of  being  wronged  themselves,  they  were 
wronging  him  who  had  said  no  such  thing.  Tell 
another  the  good  that  is  said  of  him,  if  you  will;  for 
this  is  one  of  those  things  which  make  for  peace. 
But  never,  except  in  cases  of  necessity,  tell  your 
15* 


174  OFFENCES    OF    THE    TONGUE. 

friend  the  evil  that  has  been  said  of  him  ;  for  no 
good  feeling  would  ever  lead  you  to  do  it.  If  you 
produce  any  alienation  or  unkindness,  you  do  it  at 
your  peril ;  and  however  you  may  say  you  did 
not  think  of  it,  the  day  will  come  when  you  will 
be  obliged  to  think  of  it  with  a  heavy  heart. 

We  may  see  in  the  conversation  of  social  life 
many  other  things  which  show  the  wisdom  and 
necessity  of  the  charge  to  be  swift  to  hear,  but  slow 
to  speak.  How  many  there  are  who  talk  themselves 
into  what  they  call  their  opinions  !  When  any  sub- 
ject is  presented,  they  speak  without  reflection,  ac- 
cording to  their  impressions,  or  party  associations,  or 
perhaps  guided  by  chance  alone,  and  what  they  have 
once  happened  to  say  becomes  their  opinion.  They 
maintain  it  not  seriously  and  earnestly,  as  they 
would  if  they  had  really  formed  it ;  but  when  they 
hear  it  questioned,  they  become  angry  and  ferocious 
with  those  who  differ  from  them,  because  they  have 
thought  upon  the  subject  and  deliberately  made  up 
their  minds.  When  we  consider  how  much  our 
judgment  of  moral  questions,  our  views  of  what  is 
passing  round  us,  our  feelings  toward  others,  —  in- 
deed, how  much  all  the  interests  of  the  mind  and 
heart  are  involved  in  this  thoughtless  way  of  speak- 
ing, we  see  how  important  it  becomes  to  set  a  guard 
at  the  door  of  our  lips,  suffering  nothing  to  pass  till 
we  at  least  know  what  it  is,  —  till  we  consider 
whether  it  will  go  forth  for  good  or  for  evil,  whether 
it  will  be  a  blessing  or  a  curse  to  mankind. 

I  have  presented  this  subject  because  the  view 


OFFENCES    OF    THE    TONGUE.  175 

which  the  Apostle  gives  of  it  is  very  impressive  to 
my  mind.  He  considers  a  man's  words  as  express- 
sive  of  his  character,  —  not  of  a  part  of  it,  but  of 
the  whole,  —  and  he  does  not  admit  the  possibility 
of  our  being  amiable,  kind-hearted,  or  faithful,  if  our 
words  are  passionate,  censorious,  or  unkind.  This 
is  not  the  common  impression  ;  but  you  can  judge 
whether  the  world  or  inspiration,  whether  God  or 
man,  is  most  likely  to  err.  What  he  says,  too,  of 
the  effect  of  our  way  of  speaking  upon  our  own  char- 
acter and  our  future  condition,  is  equally  solemn  ;  it 
answers  to  what  our  Saviour  had  said  before,  —  "  By 
thy  words  thou  shalt  be  justified,  and  by  thy  words 
thou  shalt  be  condemned." 


SERMON    XVII. 


DIVINE   COMMUNICATIONS. 

FOR   GOD    SPEAKETH    ONCE,    YEA,    TWICE,    YET    MAN    PERCEIVETH    IT 

not.  —  Job  xxxiii.  14. 

The  sacred  writers  often  complain  that  the  Divine 
communications  are  disregarded  when  they  are 
known  to  be  Divine  communications  ;  while  fully 
acknowledging  the  authority  with  which  they  come, 
men  pay  them  no  regard.  But  here  it  is  said  that 
God  sometimes  addresses  men  without  their  perceiv- 
ing it,  —  not  certainly  from  any  want  of  clearness 
in  the  communication,  but  because  they  are  wanting 
in  reverence.  They  do  not  take  heed  to  these 
things.  It  is  only  in  the  silence  of  the  soul  that 
man  can  listen  to  the  Divine  communications,  and 
in  the  whole  history  of  some  men  there  is  no  such 
time  of  silence;  there  is  no  cool  evening  at  the  close 
of  life's  busy  day. 

"  God  speaketh  once,  yea,  twice,  but  man  perceiv- 
eth  it  not."  There  are  three  ways  in  which  we 
may  believe  the  Deity  to  hold  communication  with 
his  children.  One  is  through  the  visible  world 
around  us ;  another,  by  direct  communion  with  the 


DIVINE    COMMUNICATIONS.  177 

human  spirit ;  and  yet  another,  by  commissioned  in- 
terpreters of  his  mind  and  will. 

In  the  first  place,  let  us  consider  the  manifestation 
of  God  which  is  made  to  us  in  the  works  of  nature, 
in  which  more  information  is  conveyed  to  us  than  is 
commonly  supposed.  It  is  said  that  the  visible 
world  reminds  us  of  its  Maker.  So  it  does.  But  it 
does  more  than  recall  to  us  what  we  knew  before ;  it 
conveys  instruction  which  has  not  yet  been  searched 
out,  and  which  gradually  opens  to  an  interested  and 
attentive  mind. 

When  we  inquire  into  the  history  of  language, 
used  in  its  broadest  sense  as  the  medium  of  commu- 
nication with  other  men,  we  very  soon  ascertain  that 
there  can  be  no  direct  intercourse  of  mind  with 
mind.  The  only  way  that  I  can  intimate  to  another 
what  is  passing  in  my  mind  is  by  pointing  to  some 
visible  object,  which  shall  represent  to  him  the  un- 
seen thought.  The  image  suggests  to  him  the  idea 
which  I  wish  to  convey ;  and  in  this  way,  doubtless, 
language  was  originally  formed.  Thus,  when  we 
would  describe  a  man  of  justice  united  with  firm- 
ness, we  call  him  "  upright,"  — referring  to  the  out- 
ward appearance,  which  naturally  affords  a  figurative 
expression  of  those  traits  of  character.  The  word 
"  holy  "  is  formed  in  the  same  way  ;  the  meaning  of 
it  is  healthy,  —  and  the  word  health  is  naturally  de- 
scriptive of  that  full,  happy,  and  harmonious  action 
of  all  within  us,  which  religious  holiness  implies. 
In  all  cases  of  communication  of  thought  and  feel- 
ing between  two  human  beings,  there  is  a  necessary 


178  DIVINE    COMMUNICATIONS. 

reference  to  something  which  is  manifest  to  the  out- 
ward sense  ;  and  it  would  be  found  on  investigation 
that  language  consists  of  images  either  naturally 
suggestive  of  certain  thoughts  and  emotions,  or  ap- 
propriated to  that  purpose,  which  are  brought  up  be- 
fore us  by  letters  or  sounds  differing  according  to 
the  dialect  of  the  country.  To  those  who  have  not 
the  power  of  speech  or  hearing,  these  images  are 
presented  through  the  eye  ;  to  those  who  have  the 
additional  infirmity  of  blindness,  these  images  are 
suggested  by  the  sense  of  feeling  and  varieties  of 
touch.  Language  does  not  require  voice  nor  sound ; 
when  the  Lord  turned  and  looked  on  Peter,  the 
Apostle  could  read  clearly  in  that  calm,  sad,  search- 
ing eye  all  that  words  could  have  told  him  of  what 
was  passing  in  the  Saviour's  breast. 

Since  this  is  the  language  of  nature,  we  might 
suppose  that  God  would  communicate  with  his  chil- 
dren in  this  way  ;  and  most  certainly  he  does,  to  a 
far  greater  extent  than  is  generally  understood.  We 
are  cold  and  careless  observers.  We  take  notice  of 
natural  beauty  and  grandeur,  indeed,  but  it  is  as  one 
admires  the  beauty  of  a  manuscript  which  he  is  not 
able  to  read,  and  does  not  care  to  read.  If  we  would 
substitute  religious  feeling  in  place  of  mere  taste  and 
sentiment,  that  feeling 

"  Which  lifts  to  heaven  an  unpresumptuous  eye, 

And,  smiling,  says,  —  '  My  Father  made  them  all,'  " 

we  should  enter  at  once  into  the  rich  and  glorious 
fulness  of  the  expression,  —  "  The  heavens  declare 
the  glory  of  God  ;  the  firmament  showeth  forth  the 


DIVINE    COMMUNICATIONS.  179 

work  of  his  hands.  Day  unto  day  uttereth  speech, 
and  night  unto  night  shovveth  knowledge.  There 
is  no  speech,  nor  language,  and  their  voice  is  not 
heard  ;  yet  their  sound  is  gone  out  into  all  the  earth, 
and  their  words  to  the  end  of  the  world." 

There  must  be  very  few,  who,  in  looking  on  the 
natural  world,  have  not  been  conscious  of  strong  im- 
pressions made  upon  them  at  times.  We  call  them 
accidental,  because  they  are  made  at  one  time  and 
not  at  another.  But  not  so  ;  there  is  no  such  thing 
as  chance ;  every  thing  must  have  a  cause,  and  mere 
lifeless  matter  has  no  power  of  itself  to  inspire  or 
awaken.  Whence,  then,  do  these  influences  come  ? 
Whence  can  they  come,  but  from  the  great  Source 
of  inspiration,  who  is  at  once  over  all,  through  all, 
and  in  all  that  he  has  made.  When  the  breath  of 
spring  comes  over  the  heart,  as  we  see  it  steal  over 
a  bed  of  flowers  lifting  their  golden  censers  and 
bearing  their  incense  upward,  we  feel  as  if  an  in- 
fluence came  to  us  from  the  world  of  nature,  when 
in  truth  it  must  have  come  from  Him  who  made  it. 
When  we  look  on  a  red  sunset  cloud,  floating  like  an 
island  in  the  golden  west,  we  are  conscious  of  a 
feeling  of  religious  repose  ;  we  forget  the  cares  of 
the  world  ;  our  hearts  are  softened  into  a  tender  so- 
lemnity which  is  not  always  there.  So,  too,  in  the 
deep  night,  when  we  look  far  into  the  dark,  still 
heavens,  and  seem  to  come  nearer  to  the  mysteries  of 
God  and  eternity  through  the  unearthly  silence  of 
the  hour,  it  is  the  Infinite  Spirit  who  thus  brings  on 
that  state  of  mind,  in  which  preparation  for  heaven 


180  DIVINE    COMMUNICATIONS. 

may  be  made.  If  we  could  only  be  sensible  of 
these  truths,  if,  instead  of  merely  looking  at  the 
grand  and  beautiful  of  nature,  we  could  look  through 
them,  they  would  be  letters  on  the  illuminated  page 
of  the  universe  ;  they  would  have  a  sweet  voice  for 
us  when  the  world  does  not  hear  them  ;  they  would 
teach  us  much  that  we  cannot  otherwise  learn  of 
that  great  Being  whom  we  most  need,  and  should 
most  desire,  to  know. 

We  ought,  then,  to  regard  the  natural  world  as  a 
medium  of  communication,  through  which  the  Au- 
thor of  nature  communicates  those  thoughts  and 
feelings  which  are  most  essential  to  our  improve- 
ment, and  best  suited  to  refine  and  exalt  the  soul. 
Whenever  our  spirits  are  in  harmony  with  nature, 
whenever  they  welcome  the  impression  made  by 
the  stern  mountain,  the  boundless  ocean,  the  calm 
heavens,  or  any  of  those  great  or  lovely  objects  that 
meet  the  eye,  then  we  may  know  that  they  are  in 
the  right  state  for  moral  effort,  for  religious  devotion, 
for  any  of  the  higher  purposes  of  existence  ;  for  as 
surely  as  guilt  darkens  over  the  face  of  nature,  and 
makes  it  impossible  to  enjoy  it,  do  innocence  and 
holiness  still  more  awaken  the  heart  to  its  influences 
of  peace  and  love.  And  why  does  guilt  darken  it 
over,  and  why  does  holiness  enable  us  to  enjoy  it 
best  ?  For  all  these  things  there  is  a  reason.  It  is 
because  the  visible  world  has  language  which  speaks 
to  the  guilty  of  God  and  eternity,  which  they  dread, 
though  they  confess  it  not  even  to  themselves ; 
while  to  the  faithful  it  says,  that  He  who  cares  for 


DIVINE    COMMUNICATIONS.  181 

the  lily  and  the  sparrow  takes  a  deeper  interest 
in  them  and  theirs,  and  is  constantly  exerting  an 
influence  upon  them  to  lead  them  to  all  that  is 
good. 

A  second  method  of  Divine  communication  is  by 
direct  action  upon  the  spirit  of  man.  That  there 
should  be  such  a  communication  is  easy  to  conceive, 
though  the  manner  may  be  difficult  to  understand. 
It  cannot  be  proved  to  the  satisfaction  of  any  one 
who  doubts  it,  for  the  same  reason  that  we  cannot 
demonstrate  any  of  our  sentiments  and  emotions. 
Still,  this  unseen  communication  of  the  spirit  of  God 
with  our  spirits  is  believed  by  every  religious  mind, 
with  a  faith  as  undoubting  as  that  which  any  re- 
ligious truth  inspires.  It  is  true,  the  measure  of  such 
communications  cannot  be  ascertained,  neither  can 
they,  as  a  general  rule,  be  distinguished  from  the 
operations  of  our  own  minds  ;  still,  we  can  tell  that 
such  have  been  made,  —  as  the  widow  of  Sarepta 
knew  that  her  meal  and  oil  had  been  miraculously 
increased,  though  she  could  not  distinguish  that 
which  was  added  from  that  which  was  there  before. 
In  fact,  no  religious  person  denies  it ;  but  we  often 
forget  the  reality,  or  at  least  the  importance,  of 
truths  which  no  one  thinks  of  denying,  so  that 
they  are  to  us  as  though  we  believed  them  not. 

So  far  from  denying  this  fact  of  communication 
between  the  Infinite  Spirit  and  our  own,  we  should 
rather  extend  our  faith,  and  believe  it  to  be  com- 
mon and  in  the  usual  order  of  Providence,  and  not 
a  mysterious  and  unusual  thing.  There  can  be  no 
16 


182  DIVINE    COMMUNICATIONS. 

doubt  that  God  is  constantly  exerting  an  influence 
upon  his  children,  as  the  sun  affects  our  atmosphere 
even  when  hidden  behind  clouds.  As  the  sun  is 
gently  and  silently  exerting  a  mighty  and  resistless 
influence  wherever  his  rays  fall,  is  the  Father  of  our 
spirits  acting  unseen,  and  often  unfelt,  on  the  world 
of  men,  to  save  them  from  guilt  and  danger,  and  to 
lead  them  to  all  that  is  good.  The  conscience 
speaks  not  of  itself ;  it  is  He  who  speaks  through  it 
to  the  soul.  When  he  who  is  rushing  down  the 
steep  of  sin  is  suddenly  alarmed  into  thoughtfulness 
by  no  external  warning,  by  no  agency  that  he  can 
trace,  but  by  some  internal  impulse,  not  likely  to 
have  sprung  up  of  itself  in  his  depraved  and  passion- 
worn  breast,  he  naturally  believes  that  it  was  God 
Who  breathed  the  warning  to  his  guilty  souL  And 
is  he  not  right  ?  Nothing  exists  without  a  cause  ; 
and  why  should  not  He,  who  regards  even  the  fall  of 
the  sparrow  in  the  world  without,  equally  interest 
himself  in  ordaining  whatever  passes  in  the  world 
within  ?  Should  we  not  trace  home  our  better  sen- 
timents and  purposes  to  that  high  Source,  as  the 
fountain  whence  they  are  most  likely  to  flow  ?  I 
have  not  a  doubt,  that,  when  we  know  ourselves 
better,  and  are  able  to  search  out  with  deeper  insight 
the  hidden  movements  of  our  souls,  we  shall  be 
aware  that  every  friendly  warning,  every  impulse  of 
generous  feeling,  every  glow  of  repentance,  every 
thing  which  sends  our  thoughts  upward,  every  aspi- 
ration to  that  which  is  pure  and  high,  every  thing 
which  brings  us  into  nearer  communication  with  our 


DIVINE    COMMUNICATIONS. 


183 


heavenly  Father,  is  owing  to  his  direct  and  constant 
communication  with  us,  —  to  the  perpetual  and  im- 
partial influence  which  he  is  ever  exerting  to  save 
us  from  this  world's  temptations,  to  make  them  in- 
struments of  blessing,  and  to  make  us  in  every  re- 
spect what  he  desires  that  his  children  should  be. 
It  is  not  limited  nor  exclusive  ;«  it  is  not  given  to  a 
few  ;  but,  like  the  rain  and  sunshine,  it  comes  to  all, 
—  to  the  just  and  the  unjust,  to  the  guilty  as  well 
as  the  good. 

To  those  who  can  have  this  faith,  and  see  God  in 
all  things  where  his  agency  is  present,  the  moral 
world  becomes  more  deeply  interesting,  more  sub- 
lime and  beautiful,  than  the  visible,  and  inspires  the 
heart  with  even  more  eloquent  praise.  We  can  look 
through  human  nature  up  to  the  God  of  nature,  and 
in  all  the  aspects  of  humanity,  so  far  as  his  will  and 
not  our  own  choice  ordains  them,  we  can  see  the 
light  of  his  goodness  and  feel  the  inspiration  of  his 
love.  Do  I  rejoice  in  the  coming  of  spring,  when  it 
returns  in  beauty  and  strength  over  valley  and  hill  ? 
Much  more  does  the  spring  of  religious  life  in  the 
thoughtless  and  hardened  speak  to  me  of  God  ;  for  it 
is  he  who  unbinds  Orion  so  that  the  winter  departs, 
and  releases  the  sweet  influences  of  Pleiades  in  the 
soul,  so  that  tears  of  repentance  flow.  Do  I  see  his 
power  in  the  crimson  sunset,  when  the  day  sinks 
gently  down  into  eternity,  and  the  last  light  seems 
to  flow  from  the  inner  depths  of  heaven  ?  Much 
more  do  I  discern  him  in  one  of  those  death-scenes 
which  it  is  sometimes  our  privilege  to  see,  —  where 


1S4  DIVINE    COMMUNICATIONS. 

the  departing  are  sustained  and  calmed  till  fear  and 
sorrow  are  lost  in  gratitude  and  love.  In  the  warm, 
living  sympathy  of  every  kind  and  generous  heart, 
in  every  work  of  kindness  which  man  is  blessed 
with  the  power  to  do,  in  every  weary  trial  meekly 
and  patiently  borne,  in  every  great  effort  of  con- 
scientious energy,  —  still  more,  in  those  movements 
which  spread  from  heart  to  heart  till  all  burn  alike 
with  the  enthusiasm  which  fires  every  great  endeav- 
our, do  I  see,  and,  with  heart  bowed  down,  acknowl- 
edge and  adore,  a  very  present  God,  who  is  nearest 
to  the  human  soul  when  it  is  most  obedient  to  his 
suggestions  and  most  profoundly  conscious  of  his 
intimate  presence  and  direct  communication  with 
every  humble  and  faithful  heart. 

The  third  way  in  which  the  Deity  communicates 
with  men  is  through  the  Scriptures,  written  by  com- 
missioned interpreters  of  his  mind  and  will,  —  par- 
ticularly those  who  have  recorded  the  life  and  char- 
acter of  Jesus  Christ.  In  him  the  Divine  was  blend- 
ed with  the  human,  —  the  infinite  with  the  finite,  — 
so  as  to  present  at  once  the  perfection  of  Divine  and 
human  character,  giving  us  a  living  image  of  that 
union  which  we  could  not  otherwise  understand. 
For  there  are  many  things  which  cannot  be  con- 
veyed by  any  language  of  description.  Try,  for 
example,  to  paint  in  words  the  features  and  expres- 
sion of  a  stranger,  to  one  who  has  never  seen  him. 
You  can  set  no  definite  image  before  his  mind, 
while  the  rudest  portrait  will  convey  at  once  what 
the  happiest  forms  of  language  would  be  utterly  un- 


DIVINE    COMMUNICATIONS.  185 

able  to  tell.  Thus  it  is  that  the  living  image  of 
perfection  set  before  us  in  the  Gospel  at  once  con- 
veys to  men  what  God  is,  and  what  man  must  en- 
deavour to  be. 

But  it  may  be  asked,  —  "  Why,  if  God  is  always 
speaking  to  men  through  his  works  and  the  influ- 
ences of  his  spirit,  was  it  necessary  to  address  them 
yet  again  ?  Is  not  the  voice  o'f  nature  clear  enough, 
when  it  tells  the  glory  of  its  God  ?  "  The  defect  is 
not  there.  St.  Paul  says  distinctly,  that  from  the 
things  that  are  made,  —  that  is,  from  the  wonders 
and  glories  of  nature,  — men  might  have  known  the 
power  and  divinity  of  God,  might  have  known  them 
if  they  had  kept  their  minds  open  and  their  hearts 
undefiled  by  those  passions  which  darken  the  clear 
vision  of  the  soul.  Doubtless  it  is  also  true,  as  our 
Saviour  says,  that  the  pure  in  heart  can  see  God  as 
he  is  not  seen  by  the  common  eye.  It  was  not  the 
defect  of  God's  previous  communications,  but  the 
faithlessness  of  men  to  their  destiny,  their  worldli- 
ness  and  corruption,  which  darkened  their  spiritual 
vision,  and  made  it  necessary  to  give  new  light  from 
on  high.  That  such  light  was  really  needed,  who 
can  doubt,  if  he  considers  what  the  world  was  when 
the  Saviour  came,  and  what  men  without  him  are 
now  ?  It  is  true  there  were  good  men  in  the  world 
before  he  came ;  but  what  then  ?  Does  a  light 
shining  here  and  there  from  a  solitary  window  re- 
move the  darkness  of  the  night  ?  Praise  the  attain- 
ments of  the  world  before  the  Saviour  came  as  much 
as  you  will,  —  and  high  attainments  in  arts,  in  phi- 
16* 


186  DIVIDE    COMMUNICATIONS. 

losophy,  and  even  in  freedom,  they  certainly  did 
reach,  — the  single  fact,  that  there  was  no  steady  im- 
pulse of  improvement,  that,  however  men  might  be 
lifted  up  for  a  moment,  they  soon  sank  heavily  down, 
proves  their  need  of  the  support  of  a  higher  princi- 
ple. The  fact,  that  there  was  no  force  acting  upon 
men  or  within  them  to  produce  moral  reforms,  to 
save  them  from  prevailing  sins,  to  make  them  better 
and  bring  them  nearer  heaven,  —  this  single  fact  of 
the  utter  absence  of  any  steady  impulse  of  improve- 
ment in  all  the  ancient  world  shows  incontestably 
that  the  world  could  never  have  accomplished  the 
purpose  for  which  God  made  it,  if  the  dayspring  of 
Christianity  had  not  come. 

It  was,  as  the  Bible  itself  teaches,  in  concession 
to  human  sin,  not  on  account  of  the  want  of  other 
original  means  of  light,  that  the  Christian  revelation 
was  made.  How  well  it  supplies  the  hunger  and 
thirst  of  the  soul  may  be  seen  in  the  value  which  is 
attached  to  it  by  the  spiritually  disposed.  Observe, 
it  is  of  real  wants,  and  not  of  tastes  and  fancies, 
that  I  speak.  Those  dreamy  and  imaginative  minds, 
which  have  had  little  as  yet  to  trouble  and  distress 
them,  may  find  something  more  exciting  elsewhere. 
To  them  it  is  as  a  lamp,  unvalued  in  the  thoughts  of 
him  that  is  at  ease,  though  so  welcome  to  the  be- 
nighted stranger.  To  the  sorrowful,  to  the  heavy- 
laden,  to  those  who  are  fighting  a  life-long  battle 
with  human  woe,  to  those  who  are  stripped  of  other 
blessings  and  whose  earthly  crown  is  fallen  from 
their  head,  to  those  whose  minds  are  made  intensely 


DIVINE    COMMUNICATIONS.  187 

earnest  by  fear,  anguish,  and  the  presence  of  death, 
the  Bible  is  a  priceless  treasure.  They  would  not 
for  worlds  surrender  it,  for  it  speaks  to  them  in  tones 
of  deep  sympathy  of  that  God  who  is  the  only  de- 
pendence they  have,  and  brings  the  glories  of  heaven 
in  living  brightness  before  their  eyes.  Thus  the 
Bible,  so  often  rejected  by  the  vain  and  happy,  is 
sure  of  a  warm  welcome  wherever  a  suffering  heart 
is  found.  When  sorrow  comes  to  the  lordly  man- 
sion or  the  straw-built  shed,  when  death  is  raging  on 
the  bleeding  deck  or  the  trampled  field,  when  the 
light  of  life  is  sinking  low  in  the  chamber  of  the 
dying  or  the  prisoner's  dreary  cell,  —  wherever  man 
is  called  to  deal  with  the  stern  realities  of  life,  —  he 
clasps  the  Bible  with  both  hands  to  his  heart  till  its 
beating  is  still  for  ever. 

But  it  is  not  every  one  who  understands  how  God 
communicates  with  us  through  the  Scriptures.  It  is 
not  by  the  letter  alone.  To  this  must  be  added  the 
suggestions  which  they  give,  the  trains  of  thought 
which  they  awaken,  the  active  energy  which  they 
inspire,  in  the  thoughtful  mind.  Reflect  on  some  of 
our  Saviour's  words,  and  you  are  struck  with  their 
depth  of  wisdom  ;  but  you  see  not  all  at  once.  As 
you  ponder,  their  meaning  seems  to  spread  itself  out 
before  you  ;  it  continually  unfolds  itself  in  new  as- 
pects and  relations,  showing  how  truly  it  was  likened 
to  a  small  seed  containing  all  the  parts  and  propor- 
tions of  the  tree  which  is  to  lift  itself  to  the  skies 
and  give  shade  to  many  generations.  It  is  by  ap- 
pealing to  that  which  is  within,  by  quickening  the 


1SS  DIVINE    COMMUNICATIONS. 

spiritual  powers  into  life  and  action,  by  drawing  out 
all  the  resources  of  the  soul,  and  making  it  earnestly 
attentive  to  the  teaching  of  nature  and  God's  spirit, 
that  the  Bible  fulfils  its  highest  function  in  the  up- 
right and  trusting  heart.  The  direct  information 
which  the  words  convey  to  us,  vast  as  it  is,  seems 
of  little  worth  compared  to  this  quickening  and  life- 
giving  power.  This  is  their  highest  virtue  and 
praise, — which  our  Saviour  himself  alluded  to  when 
he  said,  —  "  The  words  which  I  speak  unto  you, 
they  are  spirit  and  they  are  life." 


SERMON    XVIII 


THE  APOSTLES. 

YE  WHICH  HAVE  FOLLOWED  ME,  IN  THE  REGENERATION,  WHEN  THE 
SON  OF  MAN  SHALL  SIT  IN  THE  THRONE  OF  HIS  GLORY,  YE  ALSO 
SHALL  SIT    UPON  TWELVE  THRONES,  JUDGING  THE  TWELVE  TRIBES 

of  Israel.  —  Matthew  xix.  28. 

By  "  the  regeneration  "  is  undoubtedly  meant  the 
time  when  the  religion  of  Jesus  shall  have  produced 
its  effect  in  the  world,  making  all  things  new,  and 
in  many  respects  reversing  the  moral  judgments  and 
feelings  of  men.  When  a  single  heart  is  regen- 
erated, it  sees  all  things,  and  particularly  character, 
the  most  important  of  all  things,  differently  from 
what  it  ever  saw  them  before.  And  so  the  world, 
when  it  becomes  Christian,  shall  despise  much  that 
it  now  admires,  and  venerate  some  things  which  it 
now  holds  in  light  esteem. 

The  word  "judging"  is  used  in  a  peculiar  He- 
brew sense.  It  was  applied  by  the  Hebrews,  not 
only  to  the  administration  of  justice,  but  to  all  who 
held  high  civil  station.  Sometimes  it  was  also  used 
to  describe  that  sort  of  preeminence  which  powerful 
character  sjives.     Thus  we  find  a  time  in  their  an- 


190  THE    APOSTLES. 

cient  history  when  a  woman  "judged"  Israel, — noth- 
ing more  being  meant  by  it,  we  may  presume,  than 
that  her  talent  and  energy  inspired  such  confidence 
that  all  looked  up  to  her  for  direction.  Such  I  take 
to  be  the  meaning  here  ;  when  the  world  becomes 
Christian,  as  we  know  from  the  prophets  that  it  will, 
the  names  of  the  Apostles  shall  stand  highest  among 
the  sons  of  light,  and  be  spoken  with  deeper  rever- 
ence than  any  other  names  inspire. 

It  is  quite  too  common  among  Christians  of  all 
sects,  particularly  in  their  comments  on  Scripture, 
to  speak  of  the  Apostles  in  a  tone  very  different  from 
this,  —  to  speak  of  them  in  an  apologizing  way,  as 
if  they  were  originally  narrow-minded  men,  rather 
inferior  men,  who  were  nothing  without  their  in- 
spiration ;  as  if  they  were  chosen  on  account  of  their 
unfitness,  that  the  power  of  God  might  be  exalted 
through  the  weakness  of  the  instruments  it  em- 
ployed. But  this  is  not  the  correct  view  of  the  sub- 
ject. They  were  undoubtedly  chosen  because  they 
were  eminently  suited  to  their  great  office  ;  not  by 
reason  of  graces  and  accomplishments,  but  because 
they  possessed  such  minds  and  hearts  as  are  always 
called  to  the  front  when  there  is  any  great  work  to 
be  done.  Jesus  Christ  knew  what  was  in  man, 
and  it  was  because  he  saw  that  there  was  much  in 
them,  because  he  saw  in  them  the  solid  rock  of 
character,  on  which,  so  far  as  the  world  was  con- 
cerned, his  religion  might  be  built,  that  he  made 
them  the  associates  of  his  pilgrimage,  and,  when 
he  himself  ascended,  intrusted  the  Gospel  to  their 
hands. 


THE    APOSTLES.  191 

The  Apostles  were,  it  is  true,  iminstructed  men  ; 
not  because  knowledge  is  not  a  good  thing,  but  be- 
cause the  learning  of  that  day  was  not  of  a  sort  that 
enlightened  and  enlarged  the  mind.  Take  its  re- 
searches in  physical  science  :  its  astronomy  placed 
the  earth  in  the  centre  of  the  solar  system.  What 
practical  benefit  in  the  way  of  i  navigation,  what  cor- 
rectness in  measures  of  time,  could  there  be,  when 
there  was  such  a  foundation  of  error  on  which  to 
build  ?  Or  look  into  the  opinions  of  learned  men 
on  the  subject  of  morals  :  when  one  set  of  sages 
recommended  stoical  insensibility,  and  another  epi- 
curean selfishness,  as  the  basis  of  character,  what 
good  could  it  have  done  to  a  Christian  apostle  to 
have  had  those  doctrines  at  his  tongue's  end  ?  To 
state  the  question  more  strongly,  how  was  it  possi- 
ble for  a  man  to  be  a  Christian  apostle  without  first 
divesting  his  mind  of  such  prejudices.  If  the  Apos- 
tles were  ignorant  of  such  learning,  it  was  because 
ignorance  was  an  advantage  and  a  blessing.  Such 
ignorance  implied,  not  that  they  were  narrow-minded, 
but  only  that  their  minds  were  exempt  from  the  de- 
lusions by  which  many  others  were  bound. 

All  that  has  been  said  of  the  prejudice  and  nar- 
row-mindedness of  the  Apostles  has  been  founded 
on  their  supposed  expectation  that  their  Master 
would  establish  a  temporal  kingdom.  Perhaps  they 
had  this  impression  ;  it  was  very  natural  that  they 
should  have  it.  They  had  been  used  to  think  of 
power  over  men,  and  it  would  have  been  strange  if, 
never  having  seen  or  heard  any  thing  of  the  kind, 


192  THE    APOSTLES. 

they  should  have  understood  at  once  how  the  word 
"  kingdom  "  could  be  applied  to  power  within  the 
hearts  of  men.  It  is  very  possible  that  they  did  not 
fully  comprehend  all  that  he  meant  to  teach  on  this 
subject,  and  it  is  very  doubtful  if  Christians  fully 
comprehend  it  now. 

Is  it  certain,  however,  that  they  did  expect  a  tem- 
poral kingdom,  in  the  sense  that  is  commonly  sup- 
posed ?  Their  language  implied  an  expectation  that 
their  Master  would  live  and  reign  in  the  world.  But 
do  we  not  too  much  restrict  the  meaning  of  these 
words  ?  The  thief  who  was  dying  upon  the  cross 
said,  —  "  Remember  me  when  thou  comest  into  thy 
kingdom."  Now  if  he  had  said  this  while  living, 
you  would  take  it  for  granted  that  it  referred  to  a 
temporal  kingdom,  such  as  that  of  ordinary  kings. 
But  as  he  said  it  when  dying,  —  when  just  about  to 
breathe  his  last,  —  what  could  he  hope  for  from  or- 
dinary kings  ?  Suppose  that  an  ordinary  kingdom 
should  be  established  after  he  was  dead,  what  good 
would  it  do  to  him  ?  You  see  at  once  that  he  could 
have  no  such  meaning.  He  evidently  thought  of 
something  spiritual  ;  he  was  journeying  to  the  land 
of  souls,  and  he  thought  and  spoke  of  a  sovereign 
who  could  serve  and  bless  the  soul.  And  so  I  be- 
lieve that  the  Apostles,  when  they  used  such  lan- 
guage, though  they  may  not  have  comprehended  all 
the  times  and  circumstances  of  our  Saviour's  king- 
dom, did  comprehend,  nevertheless,  what  was  of  in- 
finitely greater  importance,  —  its  nature  and  spirit. 

Having  touched  on  some  of  the  chief  reasons  for 


THE    APOSTLES.  193 

misapprehending  the  Apostles,  I  will  now  set  before 
you  their  claims  upon  our  reverence. 

In  the  first  place,  I  would  ask  you  to  consider  the 
manner  in  which  they  followed  Jesus  Christ,  and  see 
if  it  was  not  evidence  of  great  energy  and  decision 
of  mind,  as  well  as  great  generosity  of  feeling.  The 
world  has  long  admired  the  promptness  of  a  cele- 
brated traveller.  When  called  upon  for  the  first 
time  to  undertake  a  distant  and  dangerous  adventure, 
and  asked  when  he  would  set  out,  he  replied,  — 
"  To-morrow  morning."  But  the  disciples  of  Jesus 
did  not  even  wait  for  the  rising  of  another  sun. 
They  had  heard  of  him  as  the  Messiah  ;  he  utters 
those  memorable  words,  "Follow  me,"  upon  which 
the  historian  records  no  doubt,  no  hesitation  ;  he  sim- 
ply says, —  "And  they  left  all,  rose  up,  and  followed 
him."  Now  when  we  consider  that  the  homes  of 
these  men,  however  humble,  were  homes  to  them, 
that  their  labor  in  the  fishing-boats  was  their  only  re- 
source for  subsistence,  that  their  inexperience  of  the 
world  must  have  made  it  a  formidable  thing  to  ex- 
pose themselves  to  its  frowns  and  terrors,  and  that 
there  was  nothing  in  our  Saviour's  appearance  or  cir- 
cumstances from  which  they  could  possibly  have 
hoped  earthly  gain, — if  we  keep  these  things  before 
us,  we  shall  see  that  no  ordinary  men  could  have  done 
as  they  did.  If  Abraham  has  been  called  the  "father 
of  the  faithful  "  because  he  went  forth  into  the  wil- 
derness at  the  call  of  God,  not  knowing  whither  he 
went,  a  greater  honor  belongs  to  them.  I  can  ex- 
plain their  conduct  in  no  other  way  than  by  ascrib- 
17 


194  THE    APOSTLES. 

ing  it  to  a  sense  of  duty.  It  was  not  till  long  after 
that  one  of  them  said  to  Jesus,  —  "Lo!  we  have  left 
all  and  followed  thee.  What,  therefore,  shall  we 
have  ?  "  Had  they  been  led  out  by  considerations  of 
this  kind,  they  would  have  asked  the  question  be- 
fore ;  but  it  must  be  remembered  that  they  left  all 
and  followed  him  without  asking  this  or  any  other 
question.  They  were  evidently  determined  by  mor- 
al principle  ;  or,  at  any  rate,  by  faith,  —  faith  in  the 
unseen  and  future,  leading  them  to  forget  and  for- 
sake the  visible  and  present,  which  has  always  been 
accounted  one  of  the  most  infallible  marks  of  a  large 
and  generous  mind. 

The  second  proof  of  greatness  and  .far-discern- 
ment which  the  Apostles  gave  was  in  their  compre- 
hension of  the  spirit  of  their  Master,  —  the  very 
thing  which  some  men  will  not  allow  that  they  un- 
derstood. In  its  full  extent  and  in  all  its  excellen- 
ces they  possibly  did  not  understand  it; — possibly 
men  never  will  embrace  its  full  glory  in  their  dim 
conceptions,  till  they  reach  a  more  advanced  state  of 
existence.  But  that  they  comprehended  it  well,  and 
better  than  other  men,  it  seems  to  me  impossible  to 
deny.  The  image  of  Jesus,  as  presented  to  us  in  the 
Scriptures,  —  it  is  lifelike,  animated,  more  divine 
than  human,  so  that  even  infidels  acknowledge  its 
power  and  loveliness,  and  say  that  it  touches  their 
hearts.  Now  by  whose  hands  was  it  drawn  ?  By 
the  hands  of  these  very  men.  But  is  it  possible 
that,  without  entering  into  the  spirit  of  the  original, 
they  could  thus  have  caught  its  expression,  since  its 
like  was  nowhere  to  be  found  on  earth  ? 


THE    APOSTLES. 


195 


But  the  manner  in  which  they  have  presented  the 
character  of  Jesus  Christ  is  not  the  only,  nor  the 
best,  proof  that  they  understood  it.  If  I  wish  for 
evidence  to  show  whether  a  man  understands  our 
Saviour's  life  or  not,  I  look  at  his  own.  I  do  not 
pay  much  regard  to  his  words,  because  there  is  a 
more  expressive  language,  — I  look  at  his  life,  and  if 
I  find  it  unlike  that  model  which  he  professes  to  ad- 
mire, I  do  not  believe  he  understands  the  principles 
and  elements,  I  am  sure  he  does  not  understand  the 
value,  of  that  great  image  of  goodness  and  of  God. 
I  look  to  the  Apostles,  and  I  find  them  in  full  sym- 
pathy with  their  Master  ;  I  find  them  walking  in 
the  same  path  which  he  trod  with  such  a  glorious 
march  ;  I  find  them  resembling  him  in  their  self- 
denial,  their  hopeful  exertion,  their  labor  of  love  for 
man.  They  have  caught  his  spirit  of  benevolence  ; 
they  have  kindled  from  the  same  fire  their  own 
bright  flames  of  devotion  ;  they  sound  the  trumpet 
of  glad  tidings  with  a  power  which  wakes  the  dead 
in  sin.  Seeing  all  this,  I  ask,  Where  are  those  who 
ever  understood  the  Saviour  so  well  as  the  men  who 
followed  directly  in  his  steps,  and  were  changed 
into  the  same  image  by  the  daily  effort  and  sacrifice 
of  their  lives  ? 

This  leads  me,  in  the  third  place,  to  speak  of  the 
personal  character  of  the  Apostles.  And  here  let 
me  say,  that  it  is  not  every  one  who  is  able  to  esti- 
mate character.  There  are  those,  who,  when  a  great 
character  stands  out  before  them,  are  much  more 
struck  with  its  peculiarities  and  blemishes  than  with 


196 


THE    APOSTLES. 


the  strength  and  majesty  of  the  whole.  Our  Pilgrim 
Fathers,  for  example,  were  men  of  the  very  first 
order  ;  but  if  any  of  them  were  to  come  back  to 
life  and  dwell  among  us,  small  minds  would  be 
struck  with  the  small  things  about  them.  The 
young  would  laugh  at  their  unfashionable  dress  ; 
men  of  the  world  would  ridicule  their  antique  and 
peculiar  manners  ;  cultivated  persons  would  despise 
their  bigotry  and  superstition  ;  it  would  be  only  one 
in  a  hundred,  —  only  those  few  who  had  sympathy 
with  noble  thoughts,  energies,  and  feelings,  —  who 
would  understand  their  lofty  cast  of  sentiment,  their 
sublime  and  generous  daring,  and  that  inflexible  re- 
gard for  conscience  which  amply  entitled  them  to 
the  name  of  great  and  good.  And  so  in  the  Apos- 
tles there  were  some  things,  which,  because  little 
things  are  great  to  little  men,  prevent  many  from 
giving  them  the  reverence  which  is  their  due.  Thus 
in  Peter  and  John,  the  two  foremost  of  their  num- 
ber, there  were  small  veins  of  infirmity  running 
through  their  characters,  like  wood-work  in  a  fire- 
proof building  ;  after  these  were  burnt  out  by  the 
fiery  trials  through  which  they  passed,  they  became 
firm  and  strong  as  the  living  rock.  But  these  in- 
firmities, though  no  essential  parts  of  the  character 
of  either,  so  attract  the  attention  of  shallow  observ- 
ers, as  to  make  them  insensible  to  the  grand  and  sol- 
emn display  of  energy,  courage,  and  intense  devo- 
tion, which  was  seen  in  all  their  history,  shining 
brighter  and  brighter  to  the  last. 

The  day  for  the  right  estimate  of  these,  or  any 


THE    APOSTLES.  197 

other  exalted  characters,  is  not  yet  fully  come.  It 
is  true,  our  Saviour  revealed  that  usefulness  is  the 
measure  of  greatness,  and  when  his  religion  pre- 
vails, the  world's  reverence  will  be  paid  to  the  use- 
ful, benevolent,  and  conscientious  alone,  and  denied 
to  many  to  whom  it  is  rendered  now.  The  time 
for  exclusive  admiration  of  military  glory — that  de- 
lusion which  possessed  the  world  for  ages  —  is  pass- 
ing by.  A  like  enthusiasm  is  now  inspired  by  the 
orator,  poet,  or  statesman,  by  those  who  stand  fore- 
most in  intellectual  power.  Hereafter  it  will  be 
understood  that  the  understanding  can  never  be 
truly  enlightened  for  the  practical  and  most  impor- 
tant ends  of  existence,  without  cultivating  at  the 
same  time  the  moral,  social,  and  religious  affections, 
each  in  its  place  and  order,  keeping  each  in  appro- 
priate and  efficient  action,  and  blending  all  into  a 
beautiful  and  consistent  whole.  And  when  this  day 
arrives,  when  the  kingdom  of  Christianity  has  come, 
when  character  is  seen  to  be  the  one  thing  needful 
to  the  greatness,  elevation,  and  happiness  of  man, 
then  shall  the  first  heralds  of  Christianity  sit  on 
thrones  and  judge  the  world. 

Again,  therefore,  would  I  object  to  that  tone  in 
sacred  criticism  common  to  all  sects,  which  gives 
the  impression,  that,  because  the  Apostles  were  unin- 
structed,  they  were  unenlightened  and  narrow-mind- 
ed. Scholars,  wholly  taken  up  with  their  want  of 
human  learning,  though  an  advantage  in  the  service 
to  which  they  were  called,  are  almost  blind  to  their 
frequent  manifestation  of  real  and  native  greatness 
17* 


198  THE    APOSTLES. 

of  soul.  They  forget  that  a  man  may  be  entirely 
ignorant  of  letters,  and  yet  have  his  mind  enlarged 
and  liberalized  by  familiarity  with  noble  thoughts 
and  actions.  No  ;  the  men  whom  Jesus  loved, 
who  lived  and  acted  with  him  while  he  was  upon 
earth,  and  to  whom  he  intrusted  that  faith  which 
was  the  world's  last  hope,  were  not  ordinary  men. 
They  had  their  infirmities,  no  doubt,  and  none  so 
ready  to  acknowledge  them  as  they ;  but  till  we 
can  find  those  who  in  the  face  of  danger  are  as 
ready  to  arise  and  follow  their  Master,  till  we  can 
find  those  who  enter  with  sympathy  as  deep  as 
theirs  into  his  divine  spirit,  till  we  can  find  those 
who  have  done  a  thousandth  part  of  what  they  did 
in  the  cause  of  humanity,  let  us  reverence  their 
names,  and  so  prove  that  we  are  capable  of  appre- 
ciating what  is  truly  great. 


SERMON    XIX.* 


THE  ETHICS  OF  WAR. 

GLORY   TO   GOD  IN  THE   HIGHEST,  AND   ON  EARTH   PEACE,    GOOD-WILL 

towards  men. — Luke  ii.  14. 

It  is  not  long  since  we  were  deeply  excited  with 
the  fate  of  a  vessel,  which  left  her  harbour  at  mid- 
night, freighted  with  those  who  were  hastening  to 
their  friends,  to  spend  with  them  the  annual  festival 
of  gratitude  and  joy.  She  was  soon  struck  and  dis- 
abled by  the  storm,  —  and  while  we  were  under  our 
sheltering  roofs,  with  luxurious  tables  spread  before 
us,  they  passed  their  Day  of  Thanksgiving  without 
food  or  fire,  —  fasting  and  in  prayer ;  for  they 
knew  that  no  human  help  could  reach  them,  and 
they  were  only  waiting  to  die.  Behold  at  eventide 
trouble,  and  before  the  morning  she  was  no  more. 
The  next  day's  dawning  showed  a  wreck,  —  broken 
and  weltering  on  the  shore,  with  no  sign  of  life  near 


*  His  last  Christmas  discourse,  1846,  soon  after  the  wreck  of  the 
steamer  Atlantic  in  the  Sound.  The  substance  of  it  was  published  as 
a  review  in  the  Christian  Examiner  for  March,  1847.  As  it  is  there 
mixed  up  with  personal  allusions,  which  take  from  the  gravity  of  the 
argument,  we  have  thought  best  to  give  it  in  its  original  form. 


200  THE    ETHICS    OF    WAR. 

it  save  the  sound  of  a  bell  which  rose  above  the 
shattered  ruin,  and  which  the  winds  and  waves  were 
sadly  tolling,  as  if  in  penitence  for  what  they  had 
done.  Our  hearts  were  heavy  and  our  eyes  were 
dim  when  we  thought  of  the  friends  of  those  way- 
farers listening  for  their  returning  steps,  and  when 
they  did  return,  cold,  pale,  and  borne  by  the  hands 
of  others,  compelled  to  welcome,  not  the  living,  but 
the  dead. 

Compare  with  this  the  feeling  with  which  we 
hear  of  battles  fought  and  many  brave  men  fallen, — 
fallen,  not  like  the  sufferers  of  the  Atlantic,  by  the 
act  of  God,  which  is  always  mercy,  but  their  lives 
gushing  out  in  blood,  shed  by  the  unmerciful  pas- 
sions of  men.  The  tidings  of  the  former  awakened 
d"eep  sadness,  even  in  hearts  which  were  not  wound- 
ed by  the  blow  ;  the  news  of  the  latter  are  re- 
ceived with  transport,  with  the  sound  of  bells  and 
the  roar  of  cannon,  —  not  minute  guns  and  funeral 
knells,  but  with  every  demonstration  of  rapturous 
joy,  our  cities  blazing  with  illuminations,  the  wine- 
cup  sparkling  on  festive  tables,  thanks  offered  up  in 
churches  ;  —  and  all  for  what  ?  Because,  with  great 
loss  of  life  on  our  own  side,  we  have  sent  a  larger 
measure  of  agony  to  the  nation  with  which  we  are 
at  war. 

When  I  consider  what  anniversary  has  brought  us 
here  this  night,  and  when  I  see  these  graceful  dec- 
orations, —  fit  emblem  of  that  religion  which  keeps 
its  freshness  and  verdure  when  all  is  desolate  around, 
—  I  cannot  but  remember  that  its  purpose  was  to  es- 


THE    ETHICS    OF    WAR.  201 

tablish  "  peace  on  earth."  And  yet  how  little  has 
been  accomplished  !  How  much  of  the  earth  is  yet 
trodden  down  by  armies,  shaken  with  artillery,  and 
drenched  with  human  blood  ! 

Whence  is  it  that  men  are  so  blind  to  their  own 
welfare,  and  so  insensible  to  the  counsels  and  warn- 
ings of  the  great  Teacher  ?  It  is  owing  to  the  in- 
fluences which  the  practice  of  war  has  exerted  on 
the  common-sense  and  moral  judgments  of  mankind. 

Let  us  now  analyze  these  influences.  Let  us  see 
what  they  are,  and  how  it  is  that  they  have  the 
effect  to  mislead  and  harden  the  heart.  I  shall  take 
no  extreme  ground  on  the  subject,  though  I  confess 
I  do  not  see  how  followers  of  the  Prince  of  Peace 
can  have  much  to  do  with  arms.  I  shall  not  deal  in 
political  allusions.  What  I  say  has  reference  to  all 
wars,  —  even  to  just  ones,  if  any  such  wars  can  be. 
I  would  simply  trace  out  and  set  before  you  those 
traditional  influences  which  the  practice  of  war  has 
made  so  general  and  so  mighty  in  what  is  called, 
one  would  think  by  way  of  derision,  the  Christian 
world. 

The  first  evidence  of  the  power  of  these  influen- 
ces which  war  has  been  exerting  is  seen  in  the  man- 
ner in  which  it  reverses  all  human  relations.  The 
ancient  prophet  asked,  —  "  Have  we  not  all  one  Fa- 
ther ?  hath  not  one  God  created  us  ?  "  It  was  a 
chief  object  of  all  God's  revelations  to  teach  us  that 
we  are  all  brethren,  —  bound  together  by  ties  of  ob- 
ligation which  can  never  be  undone.  But  the  hu- 
man heart  is  ingenious  in  its  evasions  of  duty,  and 


202  THE    ETHICS    OF    WAR. 

when  the  founder  of  the  Hebrew  law  had  pro- 
claimed the  glorious  precept,  "  Thou  shalt  love  thy 
neighbour,"  the  bloody  hand  of  war  wrote  over 
against  it,  "  Thou  shalt  hate  thine  enemy,"  on  the 
same  sacred  page.  The  two  charges  went  forth  like 
twins,  though  one  was  from  above,  the  other  from 
below,  —  a  sunbeam  from  heaven  side  by  side  with 
a  red  gleam  from  hell  ;  and  when  the  Saviour  came, 
the  Jews  did  not  know,  till  he  told  them,  that  the 
commands  had  not  both  proceeded  from  the  same 
Source  of  light.  The  same  thing  has  been  done 
over  again.  Our  Saviour,  in  order  to  prevent  it, 
gave  the  earnest  and  repeated  charge,  "  Love  your 
enemies,"  and  over  against  this  the  bloody  hand  of 
war  has  written,  —  not  indeed  in  the  Bible,  but  in  the 
hearts  of  those  who  read  it,  — "  Kill  your  enemies"  ; 
and  they  think  they  can  practise  upon  both,  —  they 
do  not  see  any  inconsistency  between  the  two. 
They  think  they  can  love  them  and  kill  them  at 
the  same  time  ;  or  at  any  rate,  they  will  kill  them 
whenever  they  are  so  disposed,  and  all  the  while 
they  see  no  reason  why  they  should  not  use  the 
prayer,  —  "  Forgive  us  our  trespasses,  as  we  forgive 
those  who  trespass  against  us."  Well  it  is  for  them 
that  God  does  not  take  them  at  their  word.  For 
my  part,  I  shall  not  suffer  war  to  expound  the  Scrip- 
tures for  me.  I  deny  that  any  human  power  can  re- 
verse the  relations  which  God  ordains.  If  he  says 
that  every  man  is  my  brother,  no  human  government 
shall  make  him  otherwise  to  me. 

But  to  illustrate  the  injurious  effect  of  the  influen- 


THE    ETHICS    OF     WAR.  203 

ces  in  question,  it  may  be  well  to  look  more  closely 
into  the  subject,  and  to  consider  what  are  called  the 
rights  of  war.  Can  there  be  one  moral  law  for  men 
of  peace,  and  another  for  those  who  take  up  arms  ? 
Is  there  one  Gospel  for  the  tent,  and  another  for  the 
tabernacle  ?  Do  men  by  enlisting  in  an  army  cease 
to  be  under  the  authority  of  God  ?  So  it  should 
seem,  according  to  the  martial  theory  of  morals ;  and 
this,  too,  though  it  is  admitted,  at  the  same  time,  that 
the  relations  of  nations  to  each  other  are  just  like 
those  of  individuals.  One  people  are  bound  to 
another  people  just  as  two  men  are  bound  to  each 
other.  But  if  I  declare  war  on  my  neighbour,  will 
that  suspend  all  other  obligations,  and  give  me  a 
right  to  take  his  life  ?  It  seems  ridiculous  to  ask 
such  a  question.  Yet  it  is  nothing  on  earth  but  a 
simple  declaration  of  war,  of  one  nation  against 
another,  which,  in  the  analogous  relation  of  states, 
is  supposed  to  give  the  men  of  each  nation  a  right 
to  shed  each  other's  blood  ;  and  they  do  it  with  per- 
fect unconcern.  In  peace,  it  is  thought  a  serious 
thing  to  take  life  ;  but  in  war,  every  one  feels  per- 
fectly free  to  do  it,  and  never  troubles  himself  to 
know  how  he  shall  answer  for  it;  never  asks  wheth- 
er it  is  right  or  wrong.  Whereas  the  Almighty 
looks  in  every  thing  only  at  the  right  and  the  wrong. 
No  rich  and  splendid  associations  can  mislead  his 
judgment  or  dim  his  all-seeing  eye.  To  him  the 
meeting  of  armies  in  battle's  magnificently  stern 
array  is  insignificant  as  the  scuffle  round  a  peddler's 
wheel ;  the  advantage  taken  by  the  strong  nation 


204  THE    ETHICS    OF    WAR. 

in  the  battle-field  is  no  more  respectable  than  the 
cheating  of  the  knave  with  his  pack  of  cards,  save 
that  he  sets  the  seal  of  his  deepest  damnation  on 
those  who  are  most  insensible  to  the  wrongs  and 
sorrows  of  their  fellow-men. 

It  is  edifying  to  see  how  these  "  rights  of  war," 
as  they  are  called,  are  made  to  vary  with  circum- 
stances. A  right  is  something  fixed  and  unchangea- 
ble ;  but  these  martial  rights  are  extended  so  as  to 
cover  any  thing  and  every  thing  which  it  pleases  a 
powerful  nation  to  do.  Does  any  man  in  private 
life  believe  that  his  having  declared  war  on  a  neigh- 
bour and  slain  his  children  makes  him  heir  at  law 
to  that  neighbour's  estate  ?  But  such  is  precisely 
the  ground  taken  by  Christian  nations.  England, 
having  opened  the  market  in  China  for  her  opium, 
or,  as  they  phrase  it,  having  cleared  the  way  for 
Christianity  to  enter  that  empire,  is  now  engaged  in 
digging  a  bloody  grave  for  the  poor  New-Zealanders, 
and  pouring  cannon-balls  into  living  masses  of  the 
brave  and  manly  Sikhs,  who  cannot  comprehend 
how  they  have  lost  all  right  to  their  own  country. 
Then,  too,  we  see  his  most  Christian  Majesty  of 
France  asserting  the  same  divine  right  to  the  little 
island  of  Tahiti,  which  he  happens  to  want  for  a 
naval  station,  and  making  the  same  demand  in 
Northern  Africa,  expounding  to  the  Arabs  that  they 
lost  all  right  to  their  native  country  when  he  de- 
clared them  enemies  of  France.  We  see  Russia 
and  Austria,  too,  in  defiance  of  the  most  positive 
engagements,  swallowing  up  the  republic  of  Cracow, 


THE    ETHICS    OF    WAR.  205 

the  last  remnant  of  Poland,  whose  fate  had  brought 
lasting  infamy  upon  them  before.  The  statesmen 
of  these  great  nations,  lest  peradventure  they  should 
be  mistaken  for  ungodly  picaroons,  are  careful  to 
adorn  every  public  document  with  the  Holy  Name, 
calling  Him  to  bear  witness  to  their  conscientious- 
ness, and  showing  how  every  step  conforms  to  the 
right;  —  not  to  the  right  as  the  moral  sense  expounds 
it,  but  to  the  right  as  it  is  interpreted  by  the  bra- 
zen voice  of  war.  And  who  can  testify  against 
them  ?  Who  can  say,  "  Why  do  ye  so  ?  "  There  is 
not  a  land  on  the  face  of  the  earth  which  does  not 
maintain,  in  the  face  of  common  sense,  common  hu- 
manity, and  common  honesty,  that  one  nation  ac- 
quires a  right  to  the  possessions  of  another  nation 
by  the  cheap  and  easy  process  of  declaring  war. 

This  matter  of  right  would  be  soon  disposed  of 
if  one  nation  had  to  judge  in  the  case  of  another  ; 
it  is  only  when  its  own  imaginary  interest  is  con- 
cerned that  it  shuts  the  dark-lantern  of  its  con- 
science, and  suffers  no  light  to  shine.  Where  any 
nation  exercises  this  right  which  they  all  claim 
when  they  think  proper,  the  rest  set  up  a  hue  and 
cry,  and  see  that  the  right  is  wrong.  Thus  Eng- 
land weeps  aloud  for  American  slavery,  and  flames 
up  at  the  thought  of  French  aggressions,  without 
one  misgiving  as  to  any  thing  wrong  in  her  own. 
France,  too,  bears  angry  witness  against  what  the 
despotic  sovereigns  have  just  done  in  Poland,  when, 
in  fact,  they  have  but  paid  her  the  respect  of  follow- 
ing her  own  example.  Reflect  also  on  one  thing. 
18 


206  THE    ETHICS    OF    WAR. 

To  every  right  there  is  a  corresponding  duty. 
Wherever  one  nation  has  a  right  to  plunder  another 
people,  it  must  be  the  duty  of  that  people  to  submit 
to  it  as  an  act  of  God.  Instead  of  sending  armies, 
at  least  before  sending  armies,  how  much  better  it 
would  be  to  send  missionaries  to  the  victim  people, 
to  endeavour  to  bring  them  to  a  sense  of  duty  !  Let 
them  take  the  Scriptures  with  them  ;  let  them  show 
the  benighted  race  that  might  makes  right.  Let 
them  see  how  soon  such  doctrine  would  reach  the 
conscience  and  subdue  the  resisting  heart.  Perhaps 
in  the  effort  to  establish  such  a  mission,  if  they 
could  not  persuade  the  foreign  people,  they  might 
get  some  information  for  themselves.  It  would  not 
be  long  before  they  would  grievously  suspect  that 
the  Christian  civilization,  in  which  they  pride  them- 
selves, is  but  a  sanctified  barbarism  after  all,  which 
kills,  burns,  and  destroys  on  week-days,  and  on  the 
Sabbath  talks  of  forbearance,  righteousness,  and 
judgment  to  come,  without  being  aware  of  any  in- 
consistency between  the  words  and  the  deeds. 

But  enough  of  the  rights  of  war  ;  it  is  sufficiently 
evident  that  they  are  only  so  many  wrongs,  —  griev- 
ous, impudent,  intolerable  wrongs.  Let  us  look 
next  at  some  of  the  duties  of  war,  which  are  of  the 
same  parentage  and  bear  the  marks  of  the  same  ill- 
favored  race.  Can  any  being  in  his  senses  per- 
suade himself  that  it  is  ever  his  duty  to  mangle, 
plunder,  and  destroy  his  brother-man  ?  What  duty 
can  require  it  ?  There  is  no  obligation  in  Chris- 
tianity, nor  in  natural  religion,  which  enjoins  this 


THE    ETHICS    OF    WAR.  207 

work  upon  him.  What,  then,  is  it  which  binds  him 
to  do  what  all  religion  so  expressly  forbids  ?  The 
only  answer  is,  —  his  duty  to  his  country.  Well, 
no  doubt  it  is  a  duty  to  serve  one's  country.  But  is 
this  the  way  to  do  it  ?  Is  there  no  better  way  of 
doing  it  ?  Is  it  a  real  service  to  his  own  country  to 
float  another  with  blood  ?  The  real  interests  of  all 
nations  are  precisely  the  same  ;  no  nation  ever  pros- 
pers by  injury  to  another.  No  one  would  ever  have 
dreamed  that  such  a  thing  is  possible,  were  it  not  for 
the  hollow  delusion  of  glory,  falling,  like  a  drop- 
curtain,  to  cover  the  ghastly  scenes  of  violence,  dis- 
tress, licentiousness,  and  all  corruption,  which  even 
a  successful  war  sends  home.  Whoever  really  de- 
sires to  serve  his  country  will  find  that  the  service 
it  needs  most  is  that  of  educating  the  minds  which 
lie  fallow,  of  cherishing  the  moral  sentiment  which 
is  ready  to  perish,  of  laying  again  the  foundations  of 
religious  principle,  which  is  the  only  true  strength 
and  safeguard  of  any  country.  Or  if  his  view  does 
not  rise  quite  so  high,  let  him  serve  it  by  aiding  its 
industry,  by  taking  part  in  its  public  works,  by  help- 
ing to  plan  and  execute  those  physical  improvements 
which  minister  to  the  comfort,  the  intelligence,  and 
general  welfare  of  mankind.  In  the  army  of  every 
nation  there  is  a  vast  amount  of  science,  talent,  and 
energy,  which,  if  the  world  could  be  at  peace  for 
half  a  century,  would  all  be  wanted,  and  might  all 
be  nobly  and  happily  engaged  in  services  like  this. 
In  confirmation  of  this,  let  me  add  what  was  once 
said  to  me  by  a  manufacturer  of  gunpowder.     I  told 


208  THE    ETHICS    OF    WAR. 

him,  that,  if  Christianity  should  succeed  in  bring- 
ing peace  on  earth,  it  would  spoil  his  business. 
"  Not  at  all,"  he  replied  ;  "  it  would  be  the  best  thing 
that  could  happen ;  when  industry  prospers  and  pub- 
lic improvements  are  made,  the  demand  for  powder 
is  far  better  than  in  times  of  war." 

When  men  talk  thus  of  their  duty  to  their  coun- 
try, does  it  never  occur  to  them  that  they  have  du- 
ties to  the  men  of  other  countries  ?  They  say  it  is 
only  their  enemies  whom  they  kill.  Their  enemies? 
why,  those  are  the  very  persons  whom  Jesus  says 
they  must  love.  When  they  call  then!  "  enemies," 
they  bring  the  case  under  the  strictest  interpretation 
of  the  Christian  law.  And  can  they  think  that 
they  are  loving  them  when  they  destroy  their  lives, 
plunder  their  property,  violate  their  daughters,  and 
trample  down  their  homes  with  the  blood-shod 
march  of  war  ?  Is  this  Christian  affection  ?  Is  this 
Christian  duty  ?  One  thing  is  so  clear  that  no  one 
can  deny  it.  It  is  this.  If  it  is  a  duty  to  do  these 
things,  it  is  a  sin  to  refuse  to  do  them.  But  if  any 
man  refuses  to  shoot  others  in  such  warfare,  do  we 
call  him  a  sinner  ?  do  we  exhort  him  to  repent  and 
flee  from  the  Avrath  to  come  ?  I  have  seen  many 
death-beds,  but  I  never  heard  a  dying  man  lamenting 
that  he  had  killed  so  few.  If  any  have  really  per- 
suaded themselves  of  the  existence  of  this  duty,  I 
think  I  may  safely  promise,  that,  if  they  should 
be  remiss  in  the  discharge  of  it,  no  great  remorse 
for  that  neglect  will  embitter  their  closing  hours. 
Another  of  these  perversions  of  the  true  idea  of 


THE    ETHICS    OF    WAR.  209 

duty  is  seen  in  the  language  of  statesmen  in  Chris- 
tian nations  on  the  subject  of  war.  They  often 
labor  to  show  that  a  war  is  unjust  and  dishonorable  ; 
they  charge  the  ministry  who  have  plunged  their 
country  into  it  with  falsehood  to  their  trust ;  but  as 
soon  as  they  take  their  places  in  the  public  councils, 
where  their  influence  and  action  can  be  felt,  you 
hear  them  say,  —  what  ?  Why,  surely,  —  "  Bring 
this  war  to  a  close.  Let  not  another  sun  go  down 
upon  it."  No  such  thing.  You  are  amazed  to  hear 
them  say  it  must  be  maintained  !  Maintained  ?  and 
for  what  earthly  reason  ?  Why,  for  this  reason  only, 
because  it  is  begun.  Because  it  is  begun  we  must 
carry  it  through.  It  was  wicked  to  begin  it,  but 
now  public  virtue  requires  that  we  should  carry  it 
through.  So,  then,  if  a  king  has  told  a  lie,  the 
people  must  stand  to  it,  and  lie  it  through.  If  our 
children  have  begun  a  shameful  quarrel,  we  must 
not  let  them  be  separated  ;  it  is  their  duty  to  fight 
it  out.  On  the  contrary,  I  confess  I  should  have 
thought,  that,  if  one  nation  had  injured  another,  it 
could  not  stop  too  soon.  If  this  doctrine  of  its  be- 
ing dishonorable  to  commence  a  work  of  sin,  and 
then  because  it  is  commenced  dishonorable  to  put  a 
stop  to  it,  is  a  Christian  doctrine,  it  must  be  that  I 
have  not  read  my  Bible  aright. 

But  more.  According  to  these  morals  of  war,  a 
Christian  statesman,  though  as  a  man  he  deplores 
and  denounces  the  war  in  which  his  country  is 
engaged,  may  vote  for  it  in  council,  or,  what  is  the 
same  thing,  for  supplies  to  carry  it  on.  Though 
18* 


210  THE    ETHICS    OF    WAR. 

as  a  man  he  declares  it  to  be  a  sorrow  and  shame 
to  his  country,  —  though  he  speaks  in  reprobation  of 
the  conduct  of  the  ministry  who  have  brought  it  on, 
—  still  he  furnishes  the  means  to  sustain  it.  This 
is  often  done  in  Christian  nations  ;  and  when  the 
statesman  stands  thus,  lifting  up  one  hand  in  pious 
horror,  and  lifting  up  the  other  to  vote  for  supplies, 
people  are  not  struck  with  any  inconsistency  be- 
tween the  word  and  the  deed.  Now  this  may  be  all 
right  and  proper  ;  but  no  light  on  the  subject  of 
morals  which  I  have  ever  attained  can  make  it  seem 
right  and  proper  to  me.  Certainly,  no  one  should 
offer  physical  resistance  or  factious  opposition  to  his 
government  ;  but  without  doing  any  thing  of  the 
kind,  he  may  and  ought  to  use  all  his  influence  to 
a  right  discernment  of  the  subject.  He  should  treat 
the  administration  with  respect,  certainly,  but  not 
submit  his  conscience  to  theirs.  And  as  for  being 
instrumental  in  any  capacity,  in  any  way,  to  sustain 
measures  which  he  considers  wrong,  —  it  may  be  al- 
lowed in  the  Hindoo  Shaster,  or  the  Scandinavian 
Edda,  but  it  is  not  so  written  in  the  Christian  Scrip- 
tures, if  I  have  read  them  aright. 

Another  of  the  fantastic  duties  enjoined  on  men 
by  the  ethics  of  the  sword  is,  that  under  all  circum- 
stances they  are  to  rejoice  in  the  success  of  their 
country's  arms.  Can  it  be  so  ?  Is  patriotism  ever 
at  war  with  the  moral  sense  ?  Must  conscience  be 
sacrificed  to  one's  country  ?  If  our  children  go  into 
a  neighbour's  premises,  rifle  his  property,  burn  his 
dwelling,  and  take  possession  of  his  estate,  must  we 


THE    ETHICS    OF    WAR.  211 

congratulate  ourselves  on  such  doings  because  the 
crime  is  committed  in  the  family  ?  Is  it  unnatural 
not  to  rejoice  ?  And  yet  when  things  substantially 
the  same  are  done  by  armies,  if  any  one  cannot  re- 
joice in  what  is  called  the  success  of  his  country's 
arms,  he  loses  his  influence  ;  he  ceases  to  be  a  pa- 
triot ;  he  is  suspected  and  denounced  as  a  traitor. 
This  point  of  morals  it  is  not  so  easy  to  understand. 
Must  not  the  true  heart  take  sides  with  the  right  ? 
Do  not  generous  sympathies  always  lean  to  the  in- 
jured party  ?  Most  certainly  no  one  can  rejoice  in 
any  misfortune  happening  to  the  armies  of  his  coun- 
try. But  if  they  are  doing  wrong,  the  greatest 
blessing  that  can  befall  them  is  to  return  ;  if  the  ser- 
vice in  which  they  are  engaged  is  indefensible,  the 
sooner  they  abandon  it  the  better.  Those  who 
think  the  service  right  may  rejoice  when  it  pros- 
pers ;  but  why  it  should  be  exacted  of  those  who 
think  it  wrong,  it  is  not  easy  to  tell. 

Besides,  when  it  is  said  that  men  must  rejoice  in 
the  victories  of  their  country,  it  may  be  well  to  con- 
sider what  a  victory  is.  The  gain  is,  that  our  troops 
have  driven  back  the  enemy  from  a  barren  and 
worthless  plain,  sunk  some  of  their  ships  with  the 
seamen  in  them,  or  taken  some  town  which  is  of  no 
use  to  any  but  the  owners.  In  these  advantages 
there  is  no  great  gain  to  any  of  us.  Neither  the  na- 
tion, nor  any  one  in  the  nation,  is  better  or  happier 
after  them  than  he  was  before.  There  is  no  acces- 
sion of  comfort,  improvement,  or  prosperity  to  re- 
joice in.     The  cause  of  rejoicing  is  not  to  be  esti- 


212  THE    ETHICS     OF    WAR. 

mated  in  any  such  way  ;  you  must  find  how  much 
there  is  to  delight  in  by  counting  the  numbers  of 
the  dead.  But  is  it  a  pleasant  thing  that  so  many  of 
our  brave  countrymen  have  fallen  ?  O,  no  !  For 
them  we  must  sing  dirges  and  funeral  anthems,  in  all 
the  solemnity  of  woe.  Well,  then,  while  we  are 
mourning  thus  for  our  own  dead,  must  we  rejoice  in 
the  destruction  of  our  adversaries  ?  If  it  is  a  duty, 
how  is  it  to  be  done  ?  That  they  were  cut  off  from 
the  living,  that  widows  and  orphans  are  weeping  for 
them  in  their  desolate  homes,  that  they  were  thus 
hurried  into  an  immortal  state  with  but  little  or  no 
preparation,  —  all  this  does  not  fill  my  heart  with 
joy.  I  cannot  rejoice  in  death  and  sorrow.  I  can- 
not exult  in  violence  and  blood.  Such  rejoicing  I 
must  leave  to  bells  and  cannon,  which  care  not  what 
language  they  are  made  to  speak.  To  me  all  vic- 
tories must  be  mournful  things  ;  I  cannot  look  back 
with  triumph  upon  a  single  one  in  all  human  his- 
tory, save  the  great  victory  which  the  Saviour 
gained  over  death  and  the  grave  ;  in  which,  be  it 
remembered,  he  shed  no  blood  but  his  own. 

A  still  more  remarkable  perversion  of  the  true 
idea  of  duty  is  seen  in  the  military  profession,  which 
certainly  embraces  an  immense  amount  of  ability 
and  science.  The  maxim  is,  and  has  been  for  ages, 
that  it  is  the  duty  of  a  soldier  to  obey  his  orders, 
whatever  they  may  be.  In  other  words,  it  may  be 
his  duty  to  engage  in  services  which  he  condemns 
and  abhors  in  his  heart.  In  plain  English,  his  duty 
requires  of  him  what  he  cannot  conscientiously  do, 


THE    ETHICS    OF    WAR.  213 

and  he  is  bound  in  honor  to  take  part  in  what  he 
thinks  a  dishonorable  transaction ;  so  that  conscience 
stands  in  direct  opposition  to  duty,  and  baseness  be- 
comes a  point  of  honor.  One  would  say  that  his 
course  in  such  circumstances  is  clear  enough  ;  it  is 
to  quit  the  service.  Others  see  the  matter  different- 
ly ;  they  have  no  scruples ;  he  must  leave  such 
work  to  them.  He  has  no  right  to  make  a  machine 
of  himself ;  he  has  a  conscience  of  his  own  ;  as  a 
man  of  spirit  and  independence,  he  ought  to  resent 
the  thought  of  being  made  a  pliant  tool  in  the  hands 
of  others.  But  unfortunately  he  is  not  encouraged 
by  public  opinion  thus  to  consult  his  self-respect  and 
follow  his  own  sense  of  right ;  should  he  do  so,  he 
will  be  called  a  poltroon  ;  should  he  throw  up  his 
commission,  he  will  be  suspected  and  dishonored  as 
a  coward.  And  it  recmires  more  nerve,  more  deter- 
mination of  purpose,  more  of  every  thing  which 
makes  a  hero,  to  face  this  undeserved  reproach,  than 
to  march  up  to  the  heaviest  battery  that  ever  blazed 
in  the  front  of  war. 

I  was  never  so  much  impressed  with  the  sad  effect 
of  substituting  this  ethical  moonshine  in  the  place 
of  duty,  as  in  reading  the  account  of  the  last  hours 
of  a  gallant  officer  of  our  army,  —  a  man  amiable  in 
character  and  greatly  beloved  by  all.  The  friend 
who  was  with  him  says  that  he  talked  with  deep 
interest,  not  of  that  eternity  into  which  he  was 
sinking  fast,  — not  of  the  Saviour  who  died  for  him, 
and  the  judgment  where  he  was  soon  to  stand,  —  but 
of  the  effect  of  his  artillery,  the  numbers  which  it 


214  THE    ETHICS    OF    WAR. 

swept  down,  and  of  what  he  would  do  should  he 
ever  join  the  battle  again.  In  that  awful  hour  when 
the  death-shadow  was  darkening  round  him,  he  was 
sustained  by  the  thought  that  he  had  done  his  duty 
as  a  soldier,  though  in  doing  so  he  had  trampled 
down  every  other  duty.  Such  was  his  preparation 
to  meet  his  God.  On  such  a  departure  one  can 
think  only  with  sorrowful  concern.  But  that  con- 
cern deepens  into  disgust,  when  we  think  of  a  man 
of  another  stamp  ;  —  Nelson,  for  example,  that  mon- 
arch of  the  bleeding  deck,  living  for  years  in  shame- 
less adultery,  making  himself  an  assassin  for  the 
sake  of  his  vile  paramour,  and  dying  at  last  without 
one  feeling  of  penitence  or  kindness  for  the  wife 
and  orphans  whom  he  had  deserted,  but  with  a  like 
expression  on  his  lips,  —  "  Thank  God  !  I  have  done 
my  duty."  Ay !  with  a  weight  of  guilt  heavy 
enough  to  sink  all  the  fleets  of  England,  he  dies 
in  the  persuasion  that  his  duties  are  done.  May 
God  have  mercy  on  the  souls  of  those  who  die  in 
such  delusion  !  There  shall  be  a  fearful  waking 
when  the  light  of  eternity  flashes  in  upon  the  slum- 
bering heart. 

The  name  I  have  just  mentioned  reminds  me  of 
another  of  the  injurious  influences  of  war.  It  cre- 
ates a  false  standard  of  character,  fixing  admiration 
on  unworthy  objects,  and  transferring  to  plunderers 
and  destroyers  that  enthusiasm  which  ought  to  be 
reserved  for  benefactors  of  mankind.  Among  our 
Saviour's  wondrous  disclosures  was  that  memorable 
truth,  so  little  dreamed  of  in  his  time,  so  little  com- 


THE    ETHICS    OF    WAR.  215 

prehended  now,  that  usefulness  is  the  measure  of 
greatness  ;  that  whoever  renders  the  greatest  amount 
of  beneficent  service  to  others  is  the  greatest  man, 
whether  so  regarded  by  the  world  or  not.  How 
directly  opposed  to  this  the  public  sentiment  gen- 
erated by  war  !  Neither  moral  nor  intellectual  em- 
inence, no  high  gift  or  accomplishment,  is  required 
in  those  whom  the  multitude  delight  to  honor. 
They  worship  physical  courage,  —  often  mere  tough- 
ness and  insensibility  of  nerve,  —  which  is  the  mean- 
est of  all  forms  of  courage. 

Really,  in  this  respect  the  world  has  been  going 
backward  ;  the  shadow  on  the  dial  of  history  indi- 
cates a  descending  sun.  Why,  even  the  chivalry  of 
the  Dark  Ages,  wild  and  romantic  as  it  was,  is  now 
invested  with  a  sort  of  Gothic  grandeur,  by  reason 
of  the  high  and  generous  feelings  which  it  inspired. 
It  demanded  courage,  indeed,  but  it  demanded  it  as 
a  thing  of  course,  —  as  a  trait  which  it  was  disgrace- 
ful not  to  have,  but  not  an  honor  to  have.  At  the 
same  time,  it  set  high  above  it  the  duties  of  human- 
ity,—  requiring  noble  and  kind  affections,  gentle  and 
graceful  courtesy,  an  open  and  manly  bearing  to  all, 
and,  more  than  this,  a  desire  to  raise  the  fallen,  to 
protect  the  helpless,  and  to  redress  all  human  wrongs. 
In  our  days  a  man  may  pass  for  a  hero,  on  the 
strength  of  talent  and  energy  only,  without  a  single 
virtue  to  redeem  a  thousand  crimes.  Christianity 
does  not  see  these  things  as  men  do,  and  Christianity 
represents  to  us  God's  judgment  on  what  is  passing 
in  the  world  below.     In  the  eye  of  our  religion,  that 


216  THE    ETHICS    OF    WAR. 

poor  Mexican  woman  of  Monterey,  who  went  forth 
when  the  battle  was  raging  to  give  water  and  food 
to  the  fallen  of  both  armies  and  bind  up  their  bleed- 
ing wounds,  and  was  there  unmercifully  shot  down 
as  giving  aid  and  comfort  to  the  enemy,  was  a  being 
more  exalted  than  any  chief  of  the  brave  army  who 
covered  themselves  with  glory  there.  Her  glory  is 
also  incorruptible,  undefiled  with  blood,  and  shall 
never  fade  away. 

If  we  want  an  instance  of  this  perversion  of  right 
feeling  on  the  subject  of  character,  we  find  it  in  the 
enthusiasm  which  the  memory  of  Napoleon  awak- 
ens. When  he  came  forward,  his  country  was  re- 
sisting her  invaders,  and  when  he  fought  the  battles 
of  the  free,  and  rolled  back  the  tide  of  war  upon 
those  invaders,  all  hearts  cheered  him  onward,  ad- 
miring his  bold  energy,  and  wishing  success  to  his 
arms.  But  afterwards,  when  it  became  clear  that 
he  had  not  the  heart  to  be  a  patriot,  that  he  was 
acting  the  part  of  a  poor  and  selfish  usurper,  they 
could  hardly  believe  that  he  was  no  longer  the 
same,  and  he  was  still  admired  and  followed  by  all 
but  the  La  Fayettes  of  France.  His  talent  and 
force  of  character  were  wonderful  indeed  ;  the  grasp 
of  mind  which  he  showed  in  discussing  the  laws 
of  his  empire  give  a  most  exalted  impression  of  his 
ability  ;  but  his  heart,  if  he  had  one,  was  as  barren 
of  all  generous  affections  as  December  is  barren  of 
flowers.  His  mother  said  of  him,  that  it  was  as 
cold  and  hard  as  one  of  his  own  cannon-balls.  In 
his  younger  days  of  comparative  obscurity,  he  mar- 


THE    ETHICS    OF    WAR.  217 

ried  a  fine-spirited  and  queenly  woman,  who  con- 
sented to  share  his  fortunes,  which  were  then  be- 
neath her  own.  Afterwards,  with  the  cold  selfish- 
ness of  an  evil  spirit,  in  order  to  ally  himself  with  a 
royal  house,  he  put  her  away  and  left  her  to  die  in 
solitude  of  a  broken  heart.  So  unsympathizing  was 
his  nature,  that  he  required  his  brothers  to  do  the 
same  ;  but  they  happened  to  have  human  affections, 
and  chose  rather  to  incur  his  deep  displeasure  by 
resisting  his  will.  Such  was  the  man  for  whom  the 
world  went  mad  with  enthusiasm  ;  even  now  there 
is  no  bound  to  the  rapture  of  some  of  his  admirers. 
The  glory  of  Washington  seems  to  them  cold  and 
formal  beside  this  idol  of  stone.  And  yet  the  fame 
of  Washington  shall  increase,  while  that  of  Napo- 
leon shall  decrease  ;  it  shall  die  out  like  the  light  of 
a  bonfire,  sinking  in  darkness  and  ashes,  while  that 
of  our  great  countryman  shall  be,  to  use  the  beau- 
tiful image  of  inspiration,  as  the  rising  light  "  that 
shineth  more  and  more  unto  the  perfect  day." 

While  the  practice  of  war  has  thus  injuriously 
affected  the  moral  feeling  of  individuals,  it  has  done 
still  more  to  deprave  and  injure  nations,  by  destroy- 
ing their  good  understanding  with  each  other,  by 
making  them  enemies,  though  the  God  of  nature 
had  made  them  friends.  As  every  jurist  will  tell 
you,  public  law  assumes  as  a  maxim  that  nations  are 
enemies  to  each  other.  This  is  doubtless  the  fact, 
but  it  seems  strange  that  it  should  be  the  foundation 
of  public  law.  Our  own  United  States,  bound  to- 
gether under  a  federal  government,  are  taken  out 
19 


218  THE    ETHICS    OF    WAR. 

of  this  vicious  position  ;  but  if  ever  madness  and 
folly  should  unloose  the  bands  which  hold  them  to- 
gether, they  would  at  once  relapse  into  the  old  sys- 
tem. They  would  become  bitter  enemies,  and  so 
far  from  any  portion  of  them  gaining  in  prosperity 
by  the  separation,  there  would  follow  a  succession  of 
border  wars,  as  cruel  and  deadly  as  the  world  ever 
saw.  Out  of  this  state  of  things  in  Europe  has 
grown  what  is  called  "  the  balance  of  power."  We 
ask  for  the  balance  of  common  sense  and  common 
humanity  ;  we  hear  of  nothing  but  the  balance  of 
power,  —  an  imaginary  restraint  upon  ambitious  and 
grasping  nations,  which  has  been  talked  about,  and 
written  about,  but  never  really  existed.  Thus  Eng- 
land in  the  last  hundred  years,  and  most  of  all  in 
the  wars  which  followed  the  French  Revolution, 
has  spent  lives  without  number,  and  run  into  a  debt 
of  a  thousand  millions,  under  the  influence  of  this 
unreal  fiction,  —  maintaining  the  balance  of  power, 
as  she  calls  it ;  and  now  her  suffering  multitudes, 
her  grinding  taxation,  and  the  depths  of  poverty  and 
distress  which  her  outside  magnificence  but  thinly 
covers,  show  what  she  has  gained  by  her  gigantic 
and  exhausting  labors.  There  is  hardly  a  British 
statesman  now,  except  some  lingering  remnant  of 
the  past,  who  does  not  lament  this  fatal  policy  of 
Pitt,  —  "the  pilot  that  weathered  the  storm."  While 
they  admire  his  stern  disinterestedness  and  iron 
strength  of  heart,  they  see  that,  misled  by  this  vis- 
ion of  the  balance  of  power,  he  had  wellnigh 
ruined  the  nation.     Sadly  was  he  deceived  in  his 


THE    ETHICS    OF    WAR.  219 

expectation  of  thus  establishing  the  prosperity  of 
his  country.  Had  he  cherished  her  inward  strength, 
and  unfolded  her  rich  resources,  the  Ocean  Queen 
would  have  ruled  a  happier  dominion  and  worn  a 
brighter  crown. 

Does  not  every  one  know  how  much  more  may 
be  done  by  quiet  attention  to  one's  own  prosperity, 
than  by  threatening  or  striving  with  others  ?  I  do 
not  believe  in  thorough  non-resistance.  I  believe 
that  there  are  circumstances  in  which  we  should  not 
submit  to  violent  power  ;  but  several  things  seem 
to  show  that  almost  the  only  thing  necessary  to 
national  prosperity  is  peace.  The  king  of  France, 
who  is  perhaps  the  ablest  statesman  of  the  day,  has 
held  back  his  people  from  the  wars  into  which  they 
would  fain  be  plunging,  in  order  to  favor  the  indus- 
try, bring  out  the  resources,  and  in  that  way  estab- 
lish the  strength  and  prosperity,  of  his  country.  And 
mark  the  result.  While  in  Tahiti  a  handful  of  na- 
tives resist  with  success  his  mean  attempt  to  rob 
them  of  their  little  island,  and  while  in  Algiers, 
where  he  is  bent  on  the  same  warlike  plunder,  a 
small  Arab  chieftain  of  the  desert  laughs  his  mar- 
shals to  scorn,  in  Europe,  where  peace  is  his  watch- 
word, he  carries  all  before  him;  thus  affording  a  mar- 
vellous illustration  of  the  truth,  that  war  is  weakness, 
and  peace  is  power. 

What  a  lesson  on  this  subject  does  history  teach  ! 
What  a  comment  on  the  divine  wisdom  of  the 
Saviour's  saying,  — "  They  that  take  the  sword  shall 
perish  by  the   sword."     In  the  case  of  individuals 


220  THE    ETHICS    OF    WAR. 

it  is  apt  to  be  so  ;  it  is  always  so  with  nations.  If 
they  are  built  up  by  violence  and  oppression,  the 
foundations  laid  in  blood  sooner  or  later  give  way, 
and  their  false  glory  is  trodden  into  the  dust.  Re- 
member the  awful  vision  in  which  the  prophet  rep- 
resents the  Assyrian  conqueror,  then  in  the  height 
of  his  power,  as  going  down  to  the  regions  of  the 
dead.  The  kings  of  the  earth,  who  are  lying  there 
in  glory,  every  one  with  his  sword  under  his  head, 
rise  up  from  their  slumber  to  meet  him  at  his  com- 
ing ;  they  bend  their  sullen  brows  on  him  in  tri- 
umph, saying,  —  "  Art  thou  also  become  as  weak  as 
we  ?  "  And  well  does  the  Christian  poet  represent 
the  oppressive  nation  as  sinking  in  a  similar  doom, 
as  triumphed  over  by  the  nations  which  it  op- 
pressed. 

"  Art  thou  too  fallen,  oppressor?     Do  we  see 
The  robber  and  the  murderer  weak  as  we  1 
Thou  that  hast  wasted  earth,  and  dared  despise 
Alike  the  wrath  and  mercy  of  the  skies, 
Thy  pomp  is  in  the  grave,  —  thy  glory  laid 
Low  in  the  pits  thine  avarice  has  made. 
Is  this  the  god,  the  thunder  of  whose  hand 
Rolled  over  all  our  desolated  land, 
Shook  principalities  and  kingdoms  down, 
And  made  the  nations  tremble  at  his  frown  1 
The  sword  shall  light  upon  his  boasted  powers, 
And  waste  them,  as  his  sword  has  wasted  ours." 

But  I  am  again  reminded  of  the  light  and  bless- 
ing which  this  anniversary  calls  us  to  remember. 
Lift  up  your  eyes,  and  see,  high  above  the  joys  and 
sorrows  of  the  passing  day,   high  above    the    con- 


THE    ETHICS    OF    WAR. 


221 


flicts  of  armies,  and  the  uprising  and  fall  of  nations, 
those  words,  —  those  prophetic  words,  —  "  Peace  on 
earth."  The  Saviour  has  said  it,  and  he  will  make 
it  good.  His  influence  is  gaining  in  the  world ; 
though  the  tongues  of  a  people  may  cry  out  for 
war,  the  deep  heart  of  a  people  laments  it ;  there  is 
no  such  interest  in  it  as  there  was  but  a  quarter  of  a 
century  ago  ;  men  are  beginning  to  feel  that  in  war 
there  can  be  no  real  victory,  —  all  is  loss  and  sorrow 
on  every  side.  Though  they  may  not  disband  their 
armies  nor  give  up  all  military  preparation,  they  will 
not  rally  cordially  except  to  the  trumpet  which 
gives  the  certain  sound  of  defensive  war.  To  fight 
when  they  must,  not  when  they  will,  is  growing  to 
be  their  settled  purpose  ;  and  if  they  think  they 
must,  they  will  go  about  the  work  with  serious  feel- 
ing, with  any  thing  but  exulting  joy.  When  war 
is  thus  regarded,  peace,  sure  and  unbroken  peace, 
is  not  distant.  The  morning  of  the  Saviour's  day 
is  drawing  nigh.  Its  light  burns  already  on  the 
mountain,  the  spires  of  churches  have  caught  the 
early  beams  ;  they  soon  will  kindle  with  far-spread- 
ing brightness,  and  illuminate  the  whole  earth. 
"  The  kingdoms  of  this  world  are  become  the  king- 
doms of  our  Lord  and  of  his  Christ ;  and  he  shall 
reign  for  ever  and  ever." 


19 


SERMON    XX. 


WE  KNOW  IN  PART. 

WE    KNOW    IN    PART,    AND    WE    PROPHESY    IN    PART.  — 

1  Corinthians  xiii.  9. 

To  "  prophesy  "  means,  in  this  place,  to  make 
known  religious  truth  to  men  ;  and  the  Apostles,  it 
seems,  could  do  this  but  imperfectly,  because  they 
knew  but  in  part.  Even  their  inspiration  did  not 
give  them  a  view  of  all  the  great  subject  which  was 
intrusted  to  their  hands.  They  could  teach  all  that 
God  thought  proper  to  reveal,  all  that  man  needed 
to  know.  But  the  full  extent,  the  utmost  bounds, 
of  Christian  truth  are  not  to  be  traced  and  meas- 
ured by  the  human  eye.  It  fills  the  mind  of  the  re- 
ligious child  ;  it  fills  the  soul  of  the  adoring  angel. 
All,  save  the  Author  and  Finisher  of  our  faith,  know 
but  in  part. 

Indeed,  our  knowledge  of  every  thing  is  imperfect, 
—  even  of  the  things  that  stand  nearest  to  the  eye. 
The  illuminated  page  of  nature,  on  which  God  has 
written  so  many  disclosures  of  his  power  and  love, 
how  small  a  portion  of  its  wonders  is  man  yet  able 
to  understand  !     Look  at  the  tree  which  rises  before 


WE    KNOW    IN    PART. 


223 


your  window,  and  shields  you  from  the  summer 
sun.  You  are  familiar  with  its  form,  its  foliage,  and 
its  flowers.  But  can  you  tell  what  is  going  on  with- 
in it  ?  Can  you  explain  how  it  is,  that,  when  the 
winds  of  autumn  are  singing  their  vesper  hymn,  the 
tree  listens  to  their  warning,  —  how  it  forms  and 
folds  its  leaves  and  blossoms,  to  have  them  ready 
for  another  spring  ?  Can  you  tell  by  what  prophetic 
anticipation  it  casts  off  its  yellow  drapery,  contracts 
its  fibres,  collects  its  might,  and  stands  like  a  gallant 
vessel  with  its  sails  taken  in  and  all  made  fast  in 
preparation  for  the  storm  ?  Can  you  tell  how  it  is 
that  the  small  bird  that  found  shelter  in  it  the  mo- 
ment the  red  leaf  appeared  took  its  flight  to  regions 
where  the  flowers  do  not  wither  nor  the  verdure 
fade  ?  No.  In  the  history  of  the  simplest  things  in 
the  vegetable  and  animal  world,  there  is  much  that 
man  does  not  and  cannot  understand. 

Come,  then,  to  our  knowledge  of  human  nature 
itself,  —  how  imperfect  it  is  !  how  many  new  pages 
are  opened  from  time  to  time  which  fill  us  with 
wonder  and  dismay  !  Perhaps  you  are  able  to  tell 
how  men  will  feel  and  act  under  the  common  cir- 
cumstances of  life  ;  but  who  can  tell  the  measure  of 
the  soul,  or  how  deep  and  far  man's  powers  and  pas- 
sions, in  their  wild  energy,  can  go  ?  We  see  the  evil 
spark  of  anger  kindling  into  a  flame,  and  we  won- 
der that  it  is  not  trodden  out  before  it  rises  and 
spreads.  But  can  we  understand  how  it  burns  and 
rages,  till  it  makes  man  stab  his  brother  to  the  heart, 
though  he  knows  that  when  he  murders  another  he 


224  WE    KNOW    IN    PART. 

is  a  suicide  of  his  own  soul  ?  We  can  understand 
the  passion  of  avarice  in  its  common  aspect,  —  the 
gathering  of  treasure  that  death  shall  take  away. 
But  can  we  understand  how  it  grows  and  gains 
upon  the  heart,  till  it  turns  it  to  stone,  —  till  it  makes 
an  Apostle,  for  a  few  pieces  of  silver,  sell  the  blood 
of  his  Master  ?  We  can  understand  benevolence  in 
its  common  measure,  when  it  gives  what  it  does  not 
want  to  others  ;  but  can  we  comprehend  that  love 
which  warms  and  fills  the  martyr's  heart  ? 

Passing  finally  to  the  knowledge  of  the  Most 
High, — are  not  clouds  and  darkness  round  about 
him  as  of  old  ?  "  Canst  thou  by  searching  find  out 
God  ?  "  Let  those  who  have  tried  reply.  Let  the 
answer  come  from  one  who  looked  through  the 
mysterious  enginery  of  the  universe,  and  saw  the 
clear  firmament  and  the  glory  of  the  heavens  as  it 
were  with  an  archangel's  eye.  A  short  time  be- 
fore his  death,  Newton  said,  —  "I  do  not  know  what 
I  may  appear  to  the  world ;  but  to  myself  I  seem 
to  have  been  only  like  a  boy  playing  on  the  sea- 
shore, and  diverting  myself  in  now  and  then  finding 
a  smoother  pebble  or  a  prettier  shell  than  ordinary, 
while  the  great  ocean  of  truth  lay  all  undiscovered 
before  me."  And  such  has  been  the  testimony  of 
all  the  sons  of  light.  The  more  they  were  im- 
pressed by  the  Divine  majesty,  the  higher  rose  their 
devotion  ;  as  they  grew  sensible  of  their  weakness, 
their  love  grew  as  pure  and  their  praise  as  eloquent 
as  ever  flowed  from  a  seraph's  tongue. 

Here,  then,  we  shall  be  told  to  reflect  on  human 


WE    KNOW    IN    PART.  225 

imperfection  and  be  humble  ;  for  we  see  how  little 
way  the  sight  of  man  extends,  how  little  man  is 
able  to  know.  But  let  us  read  our  own  nature 
aright.  There  is  enough  to  make  us  humble  ;  our 
unworthiness,  our  insensibility,  our  sins,  —  these 
should  make  us  humble.  That  "  we  know  in  part  " 
is  not  humiliating  ;  it  is  the  ground  and  necessary 
condition  of  man's  chief  prerogative,  and  of  the 
only  perfection  of  which  he  is  capable.  Consider 
the  difference  between  human  and  Divine  perfec- 
tion, and  this  will  be  plain  to  every  eye. 

Divine  perfection  consists  in  attributes,  each  and 
all  of  them  unbounded,  except  by  the  impossibility 
of  being  greater.  Divine  power  extends  to  all 
things  that  power  can  do  ;  Divine  wisdom  embraces 
every  thing  that  exists,  or  will  exist,  or  ever  has 
existed  ;  Divine  holiness  is  holiness  which  cannot 
be  enlarged  nor  exceeded.  The  perfection  of  these 
attributes  is,  that  they  can  be  no  greater  than  they 
are.  To  God  nothing  can  be  added.  To  him  there 
is  no  advance  nor  improvement.  As  he  was  in  the 
beginning  he  is  now  and  evermore  shall  be.  But 
human  perfection,  by  which  I  mean  the  greatest 
height  to  which  humanity  can  aspire,  is  as  different 
as  possible  from  this.  I  know  that  human  perfec- 
tion seems  like  a  strange  association  of  words  ;  still, 
there  is  a  perfection  to  which  God,  by  means  of 
Christianity,  endeavours  to  raise  his  children.  And 
this  perfection  consists  in  continual  progress,  —  in 
continually  advancing  towards  perfection.  When  all 
the  powers  of  mind  and  heart  are  fully  and  faith- 


226  WE    KNOW    IN    PART. 

fully  exerted,  when  man  is  making  daily  gains  in 
religious  feeling  and  intellectual  power,  when  he  is 
thus  steadily  and  surely  advancing,  he  is  the  per- 
fect man  of  the  Gospel.  For  human  perfection 
consists  in  for  ever  growing  more  and  more  like 
God. 

It  is  plain,  then,  that  to  "  know  in  part  "  is  not 
humiliating  ;  it  is  not  even  an  imperfection  ;  it  is  a 
happy  and  honorable  condition  of  our  existence,  for 
which  we  should  be  grateful  to  Him  who  made  us. 
Had  we  been  differently  created,  it  must  have  been 
like  the  animals.  What  they  know,  they  know  in 
full;  to  them  there  is  nothing  "in  part."  What 
they  know,  they  know  as  well  in  the  first  years  of 
their  existence  as  the  last.  And  if  man  had  not 
been  created  as  he  is,  to  "  know  in  part,"  it  must 
have  been  so  with  him  ;  he  must  have  had  the  in- 
stinct of  an  animal,  the  perfection  of  animals,  for  he 
could  not  have  the  perfection  of  God.  It  is  this 
partial  knowledge  which  gives  him  power  to  im- 
prove, to  make  continual  progress.  Knowing  in 
part,  he  has  the  power  to  know  more  ;  knowing  in 
part,  he  has  the  desire  to  know  more  ;  and  thus  to 
"  know  in  part  "  is  not  a  weight,  but  a  spring,  —  the 
ground  at  once  of  that  capacity  of  improvement 
and  of  that  yearning  after  it  which  together  con- 
stitute man's  highest  glory. 

Seeing,  then,  that  improvement  is  the  perfection 
to  which  human  nature  must  aspire,  let  us  next 
observe  how  this  limited  knowledge  tends  to  induce 
and  encourage  it  in  every  field  of  thought. 


WE    KNOW    IN    PART.  227 

Look  again  at  the  world  of  nature.  Its  wonders 
do  not  manifest  themselves  at  once  ;  if  they  did,  the 
mind  could  not  embrace  them,  or  if  it  could,  a 
heavy  satiety,  a  lethargic  self-satisfaction,  would  take 
the  place  of  that  restless  energy  which  makes  man 
labor  and  suffer  to  extend  his  knowledge.  Every 
thing  opens  gradually,  as  the  sun  rises,  not  full- 
orbed  and  fiery  red,  but  gently  heralded  by  the  gray 
light  and  the  kindling  clouds.  When  you  first  point 
out  to  an  intelligent  child  the  wonders  of  nature,  he 
fixes  upon  you  his  soft,  dark,  earnest  eyes.  The 
world  seems  enchanted.  He  asks  where  these 
things  were  hidden,  that  he  never  saw  them  before. 
He  enjoys  a  deep  delight,  he  finds  a  luxury  in  this 
gradual  illumination  of  mind,  to  which  he  would 
have  been  a  stranger  had  not  God  created  him  to 
know  but  in  part.  And  so  in  maturer  years,  if  the 
mind  is  kept  from  stagnation,  into  which  it  too 
readily  subsides.  Let  a  man  give  his  attention,  to 
any  department  of  knowledge,  and  he  soon  gives  it 
his  heart.  He  will  leave  all  man  loves  at  home, 
and  encounter  all  man  dreads  abroad.  In  the  pur- 
suit of  improvement,  he  is  ready  to  traverse  the 
arctic  snow,  the  burning  desert,  the  stormiest  sea. 
The  day  is  too  short  for  his  study  ;  by  night  he  will 
outwatch  the  stars.  He  will  do  any  thing  and  suf- 
fer any  thing.  The  least  new  discovery  fills  him 
with  rapturous  joy.  The  glad  energy,  the  intense 
devotion,  with  which  he  engages  in  the  chase  of 
knowledge,  gives  an  idea  of  the  manner  in  which 
the  souls  of  the  just  will  study  the  works  and  ways 


228  WE    KNOW    IN    PART. 

of  God,  and  find  every  thing  radiant  with  happiness 
and  eloquent  with  praise. 

-Jt  is  the  same  with  moral  truth ;  by  which  I  mean 
all  truth  which  relates  to  God  and  to  the  nature  and 
destiny  of  men.  Our  knowing  but  in  part  inspires 
that  earnest  desire  to  know  more,  which  is  compared 
to  hunger  and  thirst  for  wisdom,  —  a  desire  of  truth 
which  always  burns  in  the  breasts  of  those  who  are 
enlightened  by  the  word  of  God.  All  truth  of  this 
kind  may  be  found  suggested  in  that  sacred  word  ; 
there  it  has  been  written  for  ages,  and  for  ages  it 
has  lain  open  and  close  under  the  eye  of  man  ;  and 
yet  how  slow  is  man  to  understand,  how  slow  to 
read  the  disclosure  even  of  that  which  he  most  de- 
sires to  know !  Mark  the  doctrine,  for  example,  that 
true  greatness  is  measured  by  the  amount  of  servi- 
ces rendered  to  men,  and  that  no  lasting  renown  can 
be  gained  by  cruelties  and  wrongs.  The  world  is 
but  just  waking  to  this  truth  ;  it  does  not  yet  un- 
derstand it,  though  the  words,  "  Whosoever  of  you 
will  be  the  chiefest  shall  be  servant  of  all,"  have 
been  written  and  read  for  centuries  on  the  sacred 
page.  But  now  it  knows  in  part,  it  will  feel  a  grow- 
ing desire  to  know  all  that  can  be  known ;  and  that 
desire  will  be  the  cause  of  new  light  breaking  forth 
from  the  word  of  God.  We  say  the  sun  rises  ;  but 
it  does  not  rise,  —  it  is  only  the  earth  rolling  us  up- 
ward where  we  can  behold  his  light.  So,  when  the 
Sun  of  Righteousness  rises  upon  us,  the  change  is 
in  ourselves,  and  not  in  him  ;  and  thus,  as  the  de- 
sire for  improvement  extends,  the  light  of  truth  will 


WE    KNOW    IN    PART.  229 

rise  and  spread,  and  the  world's  path  shall  be  as 
described  in  those  beautiful  words,  —  like  "  the  ris- 
ing light,  which  shineth  brighter  and  brighter  unto 
the  perfect  day." 

With  respect  to  mankind,  also,  it  is  true  that  par- 
tial knowledge  inspires  a  desire  to  know  more.  1 
mean  a  real  knowledge,  for  I,  would  not  give  this 
name  to  that  meaner  sagacity  which  teaches  us  to 
distrust  mankind.  Who  are  they  that  complain  most 
of  men  ?  They  are  those  who  dwell  apart,  who 
have  none  but  selfish  interests  and  pleasures,  who 
never  lift  a  hand  to  do  good  to  others  ;  —  these  are 
they  who  talk  of  the  fraud  and  falsehood  of  their 
race.  While  the  lovers  of  mankind  are  they  who 
go  about  doing  good.  They  find  in  poor,  degraded 
humanity  much  to  reverence  and  love.  He  who 
visited  the  prisons  of  the  earth  to  expose  their 
abuses  received  not  a  word  of  unkindness  from  pris- 
oners, nor  from  those  who  kept  them.  And  tender 
and  delicate  women  have  ventured  among  the  most 
abandoned.  They  were  warned  that  they  would 
meet  with  defiance,  but  they  knew  better ;  they 
knew  that  kindness  would  melt  the  frozen  spirit, 
and,  where  man  had  been  vainly  trying  for  ages  to 
overcome  evil  with  evil,  they  tried  with  success  the 
Christian  experiment,  and  overcame  evil  with  good. 
They  saw  the  darkest  aspects  of  humanity  without 
hatred  or  despair ;  and  they  were  right ;  for  Jesus 
Christ,  who  knows  what  is  in  men,  loves  them, 
though  no  being  ever  endured  from  them  half  so 
much  as  he. 

20 


230  WK    KNOW    IN    PART. 

The  young  always  have  this  desire  to  know  more 
of  others.  Alas  that  this  generous  affection  should 
be  driven  back  to  their  hearts,  disappointed  and  dis- 
mayed, by  what  they  see  and  hear  !  They  find  their 
parents  talking  with  cold  severity  of  others,  —  of  all 
others,  —  of  any  others,  —  even  their  nearest  friends  ; 
and  they  listen  with  wonder  and  pain.  They  are 
affrighted  to  learn  how  much  there  is  unworthy  and 
contemptible  in  those  whom  they  desired  to  love, 
and  whom  they  might  have  loved,  if  their  warm- 
hearted confidence  had  not  been  changed  into  jeal- 
ous suspicion.  Thus  it  is  that  man  resists  the  will 
of  Heaven.  Mankind  are  thrown  apart  and  kept  so  ; 
those  cords  of  humanity,  which  united  would  have 
been  strong  as  the  sheet-anchor  cable,  become  singly 
as  weak  as  the  silk-worm's  thread,  and  the  purpose 
of  Christianity  is  not  answered,  which  is  to  reconcile 
them  to  each  other  and  make  the  divided  one. 

So  our  knowing  God  but  in  part  inspires  an  ear- 
nest desire  to  know  more.  It  leads  us  on  in  religious 
improvement,  and  it  makes  that  improvement  a  suc- 
cession of  bright  revelations,  in  which  man  is  con- 
tinually learning  what  he  thirsted  to  know.  There 
are  many  things  in  the  dispensations  of  Heaven 
which  the  thoughtful  long  to  know,  as  the  prophets 
and  kings  of  ages  past  desired  to  look  into  the  mys- 
teries of  God.  The  mother  who  has  lost  a  child  in 
the  brightness  of  its  rising,  which  is  now  transfig- 
ured in  her  memory  and  shines  like  a  morning  star, 
—  she  will  bear  witness  what  deep  and  agitating 
questions  sometimes  rise  in  the  breast.     Why  should 


WE    KNOW    IN    PART. 


231 


the  dying  infant  suffer?  What  moral  purpose  can 
be  gained  by  this  slow  torture  through  which  it 
passes  to  the  sleep  of  death  ?  "  Commune  with 
your  own  heart  and  be  still,"  is  all  the  answer  that 
inspiration  gives.  But  no  !  there  is  encouragement. 
"  What  I  do  thou  knowest  not  now,  but  thou  shalt 
know  hereafter."  This  hopeof  knowing  hereafter 
is  an  anchor  to  the  soul  ;  it  saves  it  from  being 
wrecked  in  its  own  doubts  and  fears;  it  keeps  it  true 
to  itself  and  its  destiny,  till  it  reaches  the  world 
where  the  wonders  of  Providence  are  unfolded  to 
its  astonished  view_,  and  it  can  read  and  understand 
them  all. 

But  why  do  I  attempt  to  show  you  the  benefit  of 
knowing  in  part.  Inspiration  has  done  it  already  ; 
it  assures  us  that  it  is  owing  to  this  our  imperfect 
knowledge,  that  faith,  hope,  and  charity  still  abide 
with  the  children  of  men.  Their  home  is  heaven  ; 
but  they  linger  here  in  compassion  to  our  sorrow, 
to  comfort  us  in  the  darkness  and  doubt  of  the 
world  below.  Faith  stands  leaning,  with  divine  se- 
renity, upon  the  Rock  of  Ages.  Hope  looks  up  to 
heaven  with  glorious  eye,  as  if  impatient  to  be 
there.  Charity  is  seen  in  the  dark  lanes  of  want 
and  suffering,  her  lamp  filled  with  the  oil  of  glad- 
ness, looking  on  the  guilty  and  forsaken  with  a 
smile  of  kindness  that  makes  the  death-bed  and  the 
dungeon  bright.  Now  they  dwell  in  the  world, 
content  to  remain  so  long  as  there  is  duty  they  can 
do,  or  a  blessing  they  can  give  ;  but  as  soon  as  that 
which  is  perfect  is  come,  and  that  which  is  in  part 


232  WE    KNOW    IN    PART. 

shall  be  done  away,  they  will  spread  their  wings 
for  their  ascending  flight,  and  they  will  not  fold 
them  till  they  reach  the  heaven  of  the  blest. 

Above  all,  I  would  say  that  we  cannot  complain 
of  the  limitation  of  our  knowledge  till  we  make  a 
better  improvement  of  what  we  already  know. 
Enough  is  already  known  to  make  us  wise  unto 
salvation.  It  remains  that  we  apply  it  to  our  hearts 
and  lives.  And  when  we  consider  what  a  cold  wel- 
come has  been  given  to  the  religion  of  Jesus  Christ, 
we  could  not  wonder  if  God  should  at  last  grow 
weary  of  forgiving  the  sins  of  Christians,  and  take 
back  the  gift  which  is  so  little  valued,  —  so  poorly 
understood.  If  this  should  ever  be,  if  the  world 
should  fall  back  into  barbarism  and  darkness,  if  the 
cloud  should  gather  over  the  tomb  again,  and  every 
page  on  which  life  and  immortality  are  written  be 
burned  to  ashes  and  scattered  to  the  winds,  not  one 
whisper  of  complaint  would  be  heard  through  all 
the  wide  borders  of  the  Christian  world.  For  men 
would  remember  that  they  did  not  improve  it  while 
they  possessed  it,  —  they  sharpened  their  passions 
and  called  it  zeal,  or  they  sunk  into  indifference  and 
called  it  charity  ;  there  were  comparatively  few  who 
took  it  to  their  hearts  and  became  acquainted  with 
its  power.  Let  us  feel,  then,  that  God  has  revealed 
enough  for  our  improvement  ;  we  have  already 
enough  to  answer  for  to  him. 


SERMON    XXI. 


ON  READING  WORKS  OF  FICTION. 
love  the  truth.  —  Zechariah  viii.  19. 

I  cannot  think  it  improper  to  discuss  any  subject 
here  in  which  our  improvement  is  concerned.  I 
therefore  propose  to  speak  to  you  on  the  use  of  fic- 
tion, which  has  gained  so  fast  a  hold  upon  the  pub- 
lic taste,  that  it  supplies  the  most  common  recreation 
in  civilized  lands,  and  has  become  to  many  so  essen- 
tial a  kind  of  reading,  that  they  have  lost  the  power 
to  relish  any  other.  The  most  favorite  writers. — 
those  whom  the  people  most  delight  to  honor  —  are 
writers  of  fiction,  not  of  truth.  Many  think  it  ne- 
cessary to  administer  truth  itself  in  the  disguise  of 
fiction,  from  the  impression  that  in  this  way  alone 
it  can  gain  a  welcome  ;  and  when  the  young  mind 
opens,  fiction  is  the  first  thing  which  it  is  taught  to 
love,  —  thus  creating  a  taste  which  does  much  to 
determine  its  character  and  destiny  in  future  years, 
perhaps  for  ever. 

When  the  use  and  love  of  fiction  is  so  general,  it 
would  be  of  little  avail  to  speak  against  it.  I  do  not 
propose  to  do  so.  God  has  made  the  imagination 
20* 


234  ON    READING    WORKS    OF    FICTION. 

part  of  our  nature  for  wise  purposes,  no  doubt  ;  and 
so  long  as  those  purposes  are  ascertained  and  kept  in 
view,  there  cannot  be  much  danger.  I  am  willing 
to  believe  that  amusement  was  one  of  those  pur- 
poses,—  not  one  of  the  highest,  certainly,  but  still 
one  of  them.  The  mind  cannot  be  always  on  the 
stretch  ;  the  bow  must  sometimes  be  unstrung  ;  en- 
tertainment at  such  intervals  is  healthy  for  the  mind 
and  soul.  If,  then,  fiction  is  occasionally  used  for 
this  purpose,  to  refresh  the  weary  powers,  to  lift  up 
into  the  world  of  fancy  for  a  time  one  who  is  tired 
of  walking  on  the  dusty  road  of  existence,  such  an 
indulgence  is  not  to  be  blamed  ;  nor  is  it  incon- 
sistent with  that  love  of  truth  which  is  essential 
to  the  mind  of  a  man  as  well  as  the  character  of  a 
Christian. 

But,  obviously,  there  is  danger  of  excess  in  this 
indulgence  ;  these  luxuries  cannot  be  the  daily  bread 
of  the  mind.  And  here  let  me  say,  that  the  effect  of 
these  fictions  on  the  mind  exactly  resembles  the 
effect  of  rich  and  stimulating  food  upon  the  body. 
They  are  loved,  no  doubt,  as  such  food  is  eagerly 
devoured,  and  the  occasional  use  of  them,  like  the 
occasional  use  of  such  food,  will  do  no  harm  ;  for  it 
is  possible  to  live  too  low.  But  when  you  come  to 
the  daily,  constant  use  of  either,  it  is  ruinous,  in  one 
case,  to  the  health  of  the  body,  in  the  other,  to  the 
health  of  the  mind.  This  being  my  view  of  the 
subject,  —  that  fictions  are  harmless  and  even  useful 
at  times,  if  they  can  be  read  with  forbearance  and 
without  excess,  —  I  trust  you  will  listen  patiently 


ON    READING    WORKS    OF    FICTION.  235 

while  I  point  out  some  dangers  into  which  the  lover 
of  such  writings  is  very  apt  to  fall.  They  are  great 
and  serious  dangers,  —  serious  enough,  in  my  opin- 
ion, to  claim  the  solemn  attention  of  every  mind. 

In  the  first  place,  that  caution  is  necessary  may 
be  seen  from  the  tendency  of  this  taste  for  fiction  to 
become  excessive  and  engrossing.  It  grows  fast, 
and  gains  strength  fast,  crowding  in  upon  the  other 
tastes  of  the  mind.  But  some  one  may  say,  "  What 
if  it  does  grow  ?  what  harm  is  there  in  that  ?  "  I 
answer,  that  fact  proves  it  to  be  an  unhealthy  taste, 
and  one  which  cannot  be  indulged  without  injury  to 
the  mind.  It  is  in  this  as  it  is  in  other  things.  The 
appetite  for  bread  is  a  natural  and  healthy  one,  and 
so  is  the  taste  for  water ;  there  is  no  tendency  to  use 
either  of  them  to  excess.  The  use  of  them  does 
not  inflame  any  appetite  within  you  which  will  ever 
become  hard  to  put  down.  But  it  is  not  so  with 
the  use  of  stimulating  food  and  drink.  Every  one 
knows  that  they  tend  to  excess  ;  great  care  and  self- 
control  are  necessary  to  prevent  our  using  them  to 
excess  ;  and  this  tendency  is  proof  enough  that  they 
are  unhealthy,  and  that  it  is  dangerous  to  indulge 
them.  In  the  same  manner  do  I  say,  that  there  is 
no  danger  that  the  taste  for  reading  true  history  will 
ever  become  excessive  ;  —  it  is  healthy  in  itself,  and 
indicates  right  action  in  the  mind.  One  who  habit- 
ually reads  what  is  true  can  occasionally  resort  to 
fiction  with  pleasure,  whereas  the  habitual  reader  of 
fiction  cannot  interest  himself  in  truth  ;  it  is  too 
simple  and  unexciting  for  him,  and  his  indifference 


236  ON    READING    WORKS    OF    FICTION. 

is  a  bad  sign,  for  the  mind  when  not  diseased  will 
always  find  satisfaction  in  the  truth. 

As  I  said,  this  taste  for  fiction,  beside  being  un- 
healthy, dislodges  and  removes  better  tastes  from  the 
mind.  There  is  among  our  feathered  tribes  one 
which  lays  its  egg  in  the  nest  of  some  smaller  bird. 
After  the  young  cowbird  is  hatched,  though  it  has 
no  enmity  to  the  rightful  tenants,  the  nest  is  soon 
found  too  narrow  to  hold  them  all,  and  the  result  is 
that  the  smaller  fall  over  the  side  ;  the  offspring  of 
the  thief  becomes  the  sole  possessor,  and  is  sustained 
by  the  food  which  belongs  to  the  ejected  young. 
This  is  an  illustration  of  the  manner  in  which  a 
taste  for  fiction  takes  a  piratical  and  exclusive  pos- 
session of  the  mind  which  harbours  it.  You  think, 
perhaps,  that  your  children  are  great  readers,  and  re- 
joice in  it  as  an  indication  of  activity  of  mind.  But 
see  what  it  is  that  they  are  fond  of  reading  ;  and  if 
you  find  it  to  be  fiction,  you  may  as  well  tell  me 
that  they  devour  great  quantities  of  confectionary  as 
a  proof  that  they  are  healthy,  as  infer  from  their  de- 
vouring fiction  that  their  minds  are  in  the  way  to 
improve.  No.  In  the  one  case,  your  child  will  be 
diseased  and  have  no  appetite  for  the  food  which 
only  can  make  him  strong  ;  and  in  the  other,  you 
will  find  that,  when  it  comes  to  reading  for  improve- 
ment, he  has  lost  the  power  to  do  it  ;  and  without 
utterly  renouncing  the  wrong  taste,  he  can  no  more 
recover  the  right  one,  than  one  who  allows  himself 
to  use  strong  drink  intemperately  can  relish  water 
from  the  purest  spring.     And  this  is  true,  whether  in 


ON    READING    WORKS    OF    FICTION.  237 

childhood,  manhood,  or  old  age.  Let  your  taste  for 
fiction  be  so  much  indulged  that  you  can  no  longer 
relish  reading  for  improvement,  and  the  injury  is 
done  ;  the  mind  is  no  longer  healthy ;  the  manfy, 
pure,  refined  enjoyment  which  comes  from  the  har- 
monious use  and  unfolding  of  the  powers  is  one 
which  such  a  reader  can  never  know.  He  may  en- 
joy his  fictions  when  he  has  them,  but  in  the  inter- 
vals his  mind  falls  heavily  back  upon  itself;  his 
vacant  hours  are  dreary  ;  he  knows  not  what  to  do. 
Heavier  yet  will  the  hours  roll  over  him  in  some 
future  day. 

There  is  another  danger,  arising  from  the  fact  that 
the  mind  is  passive,  perfectly  passive,  in  this  kind 
of  reading.  In  reading  for  improvement  it  is  not  so  ; 
in  that  operation  the  mind  is  active.  Any  one  who 
has  ever  read  for  this  purpose  knows  that,  while  he 
is  so  engaged,  many  questions  start  up  in  his  mind  ; 
many  new  trains  of  thought  are  suggested ;  the 
mind,  instead  of  tamely  receiving  the  communica- 
tions of  the  writer,  originates  new  ideas  of  its  own. 
This  is,  in  fact,  the  benefit  of  such  reading.  No  one 
can  remember  a  hundredth  part  of  what  he  reads  ; 
the  benefit  does  not  consist  in  direct  attainment  so 
made  ;  in  a  word,  the  benefit  of  reading  for  im- 
provement consists  in  the  activity  and  vigor  which 
it  awakens  and  sustains  in  the  mind.  But  in  read- 
ing for  amusement,  the  mind  is  not  in  action.  It 
originates  no  trains  of  thought  ;  it  gains  no  new 
strength  nor  power  of  action  ;  but,  on  the  contrary, 
subsides  into  a  luxurious,  dreamy  state,  very  much 


238  ON    READING    WORKS    OF    FICTION. 

resembling  that  produced  by  narcotics,  and  which, 
fascinating  though  it  is,  destroys  all  moral  and  intel- 
lectual energy,  and  makes  self-indulgence  the  ruling 
principle  within.  Pleasant,  no  doubt,  it  is.  How 
much  pleasanter  to  sail  fast  over  smooth  waters  than 
to  walk  on  the  rough  highway  !  But  look  to  the 
results.  While  the  tenant  of  the  pleasure-boat  gains 
no  exercise,  and  grows  tired  at  last  of  his  perpetual 
recreation,  the  wayfarer  becomes  invigorated  by  his 
exertions,  and,  after  his  first  weariness  is  over,  en- 
joys the  sensation  of  full  health,  —  the  most  light- 
hearted  and  joyous  of  all  physical  sensations  which 
it  is  given  to  man  to  know. 

Here,  also,  we  see  how  little  force  there  is  in  the 
common  saying,  that  good  moral  instruction  can  be 
given  in  a  fictitious  form.  Nobody  doubts  this  ;  but 
there  is  another  question  :  — Can  such  instruction  be 
taken  in  a  fictitious  form  ?  Now  I  say,  that  if  the 
mind  is  passive,  not  active,  in  such  reading,  —  and  it 
is  impossible  to  deny  it, — such  instruction,  if  given, 
cannot  be  taken,  and  will  do  the  reader  no  good. 
But  experience  on  this  subject  abounds,  and  will 
settle  this  question,  if  there  is  one.  The  most  com- 
mon aim  of  such  writing  is  to  excite  the  benevolent 
affections  ;  the  utmost  it  ever  does  is  to  excite  some 
benevolent  emotions,  but  no  impulses, — nothing 
that  leads  to  action  ;  such  emotions,  perhaps,  as 
bring  some  tears  to  the  eye,  but  no  such  impulses  as 
make  men  extend  their  hands  to  the  distressed.  Now 
these  emotions  which  do  not  lead  to  action  grow 
less  and  less  every   time    they  are  repeated.     The 


ON    READING    WORKS    OF    FICTION.  239 

tears  are  shed,  perhaps,  as  usual,  for  they  cost  noth- 
ing, but  the  heart  grows  cold  ;  so  that,  of  all  human 
beings,  these  persons  who  weep  over  fictitious  dis- 
tress are  the  very  last  to  whom  you  would  go  for  re- 
lief in  that  suffering  with  which  the  world  abounds. 
There  must  be  something  graceful  and  interesting  in 
distress  before  it  can  touch  their  feelings  ;  and  as 
there  is  a  hard  and  coarse  reality  in  all  suffering  that 
requires  relief,  they  reserve  their  sympathy  for  im- 
aginary sorrows,  and  turn  from  actual  sorrows  with 
disgust.  In  this  way  does  their  fictitious  morality 
affect  them.  It  produces  only  fictitious  benevolence; 
it  never  warms  the  heart.  And  if  this  reading  is  a 
self-indulgence,  as  we  know  it  is,  how  can  we  ex- 
pect any  thing  self-denying,  as  all  true  benevolence 
must  be,  to  grow  out  of  it  ?  We  might  as  well  ex- 
pect fires  to  kindle  out  of  snow.  It  is  often  said  of 
fictions,  that  they  give  false  views  of  human  life. 
They  do  not  give  any  views  of  human  life  at  all. 
The  mind,  being  passive,  is  not  in  a  state  to  receive 
instruction,  however  just  and  true  may  be  the  views 
of  the  writer.  Nothing  is  communicated  to  the 
mind  ;  so  that  these  views  of  life,  as  they  are  called, 
are  nothing  but  the  reader's  own  fancies  ;  they  are 
nothing  that  he  sees  about  him,  but  only  paintings 
of  the  imagination  within  ;  and  I  need  not  say  how 
impossible  it  is  that  they  should  be  practical,  useful, 
or  true. 

Because  of  this  circumstance,  that  the  mind  is 
passive  in  reading  fiction,  it  is  exposed  to  injurious 
influences,  which  if  it  were  in  action  it  would  hardly 


240  ON    READING    WORKS    OF    FICTION. 

feel.  The  health  of  the  mind  is  precisely  analogous 
to  that  of  the  body,  and  depends  on  similar  laws. 
Let  a  man  be  exposed  to  the  evening  air  in  an  un- 
healthy climate  ;  so  long  as  he  is  in  motion,  there  is 
no  danger  ;  but  let  him  sit  down  to  gaze  at  the 
moonlight  as  it  sleeps  sweetly  on  the  landscape,  and 
he  will  breathe  in  disease  with  the  fragrance  of  the 
flowers.  Still  more,  if  he  slumbers  under  the  serene 
and  peaceful  influence  of  that  evening  sky,  it  is 
almost  certain  that  death  will  be  the  end  of  it.  Who 
does  not  know  that  the  enjoyment  of  reading  fiction 
resembles  this  ?  It  has  a  soothing  and  pleasant  effect 
upon  the  mind.  One  cannot  easily  persuade  himself 
that  his  moral  health  is  in  danger  ;  but  certain  it  is 
that  he  is  the  sure  victim  of  the  immoral  and  un- 
principled author  whom  he  reads.  His  moral  and 
religious  sensibility  will  be  impaired ;  his  hatred  of 
guilt  and  unworthiness  will  be  put  to  sleep,  and 
he  will  become  callous  to  suggestions  which  he 
would  formerly  have  regarded  with  fear  and  shame. 

But  you  say  all  writers  of  fiction  are  not  immoral. 
No,  they  are  not ;  and  it  is  well  for  the  world  that  it 
is  so.  I  allow  that  the  best  and  most  eminent  of 
them  are  not  men  who  will  stoop  to  licentiousness 
and  corruption.  But  many  of  them  are  persons  who 
will  descend  to  any  thing  for  the  sake  of  effect, 
and,  as  they  have  no  moral  principle  of  their  own, 
will  not  regard,  nor  even  be  conscious  of,  the  mis- 
chief they  do  ;  and  if  a  person  of  this  kind  can  se- 
cure a  temporary  popularity,  he  may  spread  the 
breath  of  contagion  among  thousands,  because  they 


ON    READING    WORKS    OF    FICTION.  241 

read  him  with  minds  too  passive  to  discover  the  in- 
jury he  is  doing  to  their  virtue.  Thus  there  may  be 
an  author  so  unconscious  of  moral  distinctions,  as  to 
represent  a  common  thief  as  lofty  and  generous  in 
his  sentiments  and  affections,  and  so  recommend  him 
to  the  reader's  imitation  and  love.  Or  he  may  take 
a  murderer,  and  invest  the  base  wretch  with  rain- 
bow colors  of  fancy,  till  the  bewildered  reader  shall 
really  feel  as  if  assassination  were  consistent  with  re- 
finement and  even  grandeur  of  mind,  — not  perceiv- 
ing that  these  are  stupid  and  senseless  contradic- 
tions, —  not  conscious  that  the  shallow  and  rotten- 
hearted  writer  is  effacing  from  his  mind  all  the  lines 
which  separate  vice  from  virtue,  and  glory  from 
shame.  I  allow  that  the  world  will  at  last  find  out 
these  creatures  of  a  day,  and  dismiss  them  to  forget- 
fulness  with  the  contempt  which  they  deserve.  But 
meantime  they  are  read  by  many.  In  many  young 
hearts  their  infamous  work  is  done.  They  have 
taught  many  young  and  tender  spirits  to  look  on 
crimes  without  abhorrence,  to  admire,  rather  than 
condemn,  the  guilty,  and  have  thus  brought  their 
minds  unconsciously  into  opposition  to  the  spirit  of 
the  Gospel  and  the  laws  of  God,  —  not  because  they 
write  with  power,  but  because  a  mind  not  in  action 
is  open  to  every  influence,  and  can  be  bent  and 
moulded  with  the  light  touch  of  the  feeblest  hand. 

I  would  say,  too,  that  if  there  are  not  many  writ- 
ers of  this  description,  if — though  some  such  have 
been  popular  with  those  who  ought  to  know  bet- 
ter —  the  majority  are  of  a  higher  order,  still  the 
21 


242  ON    READING    WORKS    OF    FICTION. 

very  best  of  them  may  do  injury,  because  they  will 
create  a  taste  for  fiction  which  can  only  be  fed  with 
fiction.  Let  a  youth  begin  with  the  most  unexcep- 
tionable writers  of  the  kind,  —  writers  who  would 
scorn  to  prostitute  their  imaginations  to  low  or  licen- 
tious uses, — still,  the  more  the  young  are  fascinated 
by  them,  the  more  are  they  in  love  with  fiction ;  the 
more  do  they  crave  such  excitement  ;  the  less  easily 
do  they  content  themselves  with  that  daily  bread 
which  is  the  only  healthy  food  for  the  mind.  Now 
if  this  appetite  is  once  created,  it  will  soon  lose  its 
moral  taste  and  power  of  selection.  It  will  demand 
and  it  will  have  indulgence.  Works  of  high  moral 
beauty  will  soon  cease  to  stimulate,  and  it  will  be- 
gin to  devour  indiscriminately  all  such  works  as  lie 
in  its  way,  without  regard  to  their  character,  or  the 
effect  they  may  have  upon  his  heart.  The  epicure 
may  begin  with  light  wines  ;  so  long  as  they  exhil- 
arate, he  will  not  ask  for  any  thing  stronger;  but  the 
thirst  for  excitement  grows  within  him,  and  when 
these  will  no  longer  excite,  he  will  resort  to  those 
stronger  drinks  which  he  once  disdained  to  touch. 
In  the  same  way  it  is  that  even  the  best  writers  of 
this  kind  create  a  taste  for  intellectual  excitement, 
which  must  and  will  be  indulged.  When  their 
works  are  exhausted,  the  reader  will  resort  to  others 
less  worthy  ;  he  will  not  perceive  the  degenerating 
change  which  goes  on  within  him  ;  he  will  not  be 
conscious  that  his  moral  sense  is  dead  and  all  his 
soul  in  ruins. 

This   unconsciousness   of   danger  —  unconscious- 


ON    READING    WORKS    OF    FICTION.  243 

ness  even  of  ruin  —  is  one  of  the  most  fearful  things 
in  all  diseases  of  the  mind  and  heart.  When  the 
frame  is  affected  with  physical  disorder,  it  is  plain  to 
every  eye  ;  but  no  external  trembling  betrays  the 
palsy  which  indulgence  has  brought  upon  the  mind  ; 
no  blackness  on  the  surface  shows  that  mortification 
of  the  moral  nature  has  commenced  within.  A  man 
does  not  even  know  when  his  soul  is  dead,  —  dead 
to  all  living  action,  dead  to  all  the  higher  purposes 
of  existence,  dead  to  the  claims  of  humanity  and  of 
God.  Therefore  do  I  say  that  a  man  must  look 
within  himself  with  a  sharp,  observing  eye.  He 
must  learn  to  watch  those  signs  of  change  which 
are  not  obvious  to  the  outward  sense  ;  he  must 
dread  that  self-satisfaction  which  is  always  crying, 
"  Peace,  peace,"  when,  if  he  knew  himself,  he 
would  have  no  peace  within. 

If  any  one  asks  how  he  may  know  the  signs  of 
danger,  I  say,  as  I  intimated  before,  that  if  he  has 
lost  his  taste,  or  never  formed  the  taste  for  reading 
for  improvement,  there  is  injury  already  done.  If 
he  would  know  how  much  is  done,  let  him  throw 
by  the  news  and  fiction  of  the  day,  and  see  whether 
they  are  essential  to  his  enjoyment ;  whether  he  is 
listless  and  dull  without  them,  or  whether  he  can 
turn  with  energy  and  interest  to  works  of  a  different 
order,  —  such  as  will  put  the  mind  in  action,  and 
send  through  it  a  healthy  glow.  Let  him  make  the 
experiment  fully  and  fairly,  without  submitting  to 
any  arts  of  self-imposture,  and  if  he  finds  that  it 
gives  him  no  pleasure  to  exert  his  powers,  that  im- 


244  ON    READING    WORKS    OF    FICTION. 

provement  alone  has  no  attractions,  that  he  turns  to 
his  fiction  like  the  intemperate  man  to  his  glass, 
then  the  charge,  "  Love  the  truth,"  should  be  a 
serious  sound  to  him.  It  reminds  him  of  a  pervert- 
ed taste,  of  a  neglected  duty  ;  and  of  a  change, 
too,  which  must  be  made  before  the  purposes  of  life 
can  be  fulfilled. 


ADDRESS 


DELIVERED    AT    THE    CONSECRATION  OF  THE    SPRINGFIELD   CEMETERY, 
SEPTEMBER   5tH,184L* 


When  I  saw  this  great  audience  just  now,  wind- 
ing up  through  the  glades  of  the  cemetery,  to  take 
their  places  on  this  ground,  I  was  deeply  affected 
with  the  thought,  how  soon  we  shall  take  our  places 
in  the  dust,  below.  With  this  deep  thought  upon 
our  minds,  with  these  hills  and  valleys  around  us, 
in  presence  of  these  venerable  trees  and  these  spark- 
ling waters,  with  the  green  earth  beneath  and  God's 
own  bright  sky  above  us,  I  need  not  ask  your-  at- 
tention, I  need  not  labor  to  bring  you  to  solemnity  ; 
for  I  doubt  not  that  a  voice  is  now  saying  in  every 
heart,  "  The  place  whereon  thou  standest  is  holy 
ground." 

The  feeling  which  leads  us  to  respect  the  dead, 
the  same  feeling  which  brings  us  here  to-day,  is 
found  in  every  age  and  country  ;  ay,  in  every  man 
who  deserves  the  name  of  man.     The  rough  soldier, 

*  The  interest  which  Dr.  Peabody  took  in  this  cemetery  has  been 
noticed  in  the  Memoir.  Though  an  edition  of  his  Address  at  its  con- 
secration was  published  at  the  time,  for  circulation  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, we  have  thought  that  it  might  be  appropriately  reprinted  here. 

21* 


246  ADDRESS    AT    THE    CONSECRATION 

at  the  grave  of  his  comrade,  feels  this  strong  emo- 
tion, and  becomes  a  better  man  for  the  time  ;  the 
seaman,  as  he  leans  over  the  side  of  his  vessel,  to 
watch  the  plunge  of  his  shipmate's  corpse  in  the 
waters,  becomes  more  thoughtful  than  ever  he  was 
before.  And  ye  yourselves  do  know,  that,  in  every 
funeral,  where  the  dead  lies  out  before  the  living, 
with  an  air  of  mysterious  reserve  upon  his  brow, 
with  an  unsearchable  depth  of  expression  which  no 
living  eye  can  read,  he  is  invested,  for  the  time, 
with  the  stern  majesty  of  death,  and  every  heart 
does  willing  homage  to  his  power. 

Nor  does  this  reverence  cease  when  the  dead  are 
hidden  from  our  eyes.  It  follows  them  to  the  grave, 
and  makes  us  regard  as  sacred  the  place  where  we 
have  laid  them.  The  burial-place  is  the  favorite 
retreat  of  the  thoughtful  ;  it  calms  all  troubled  feel- 
ings ;  it  is  the  place  where  many  holy  lives  begin, 
where  the  unfortunate  are  most  reconciled  to  this 
world,  and  the  gay  most  concerned  for  the  other. 
When  our  friends  depart,  we  hang  over  these  places 
with  profound  interest,  because  here  it  is  that  we 
lose  them.  Up  to  this  place  we  can  follow  them, 
through  all  changes  of  joy  and  sorrow,  of  life  and 
death.  But  "  hitherto  shalt  thou  come,  and  no  far- 
ther," is  written  on  the  portal  of  the  tomb.  Here 
is  the  boundary,  beyond  which  they  cannot  return, 
beyond  which  we  cannot  go.  No  wonder,  then, 
that  it  chains  attention  ;  it  is  like  the  spot  in  the 
ocean  where  we  have  seen  some  gallant  ship  go 
down. 


OF    THE    SPRINGFIELD    CEMETERY.  247 

And  now  I  say,  it  is  nature,  that  is,  the  God  of 
nature,  who  inspires  this  feeling  in  the  human  breast. 
I  have  heard  some  men  say,  that  they  care  not  what 
becomes  of  their  remains  when  they  are  gone.  It 
may  be  so ;  they  may  say  so  of  themselves  if  they 
will.  But  if  they  say  that  they  care  not  what  be- 
comes of  the  remains  of  their  friends  when  they 
are  gone,  their  hearts  are  not  in  the  right  place  ; 
I  should  doubt  if  they  had  friends,  —  I  should  know 
that  they  did  not  deserve  them.  Indifference  to 
these  things  is  not  natural  to  any  good  mind  or 
heart.  Nature  says,  "  Bury  me  with  my  fathers." 
The  feeling  which  nature  dictates  is,  "  that  I  may 
die  in  mine  own  city,  and  be  buried  by  the  grave  of 
my  father  and  my  mother." 

It  is  true  the  soul  is  more  than  the  body ;  the  con- 
dition of  the  soul  which  has  gone  into  eternity  is  in- 
finitely more  important  than  that  of  the  tenement 
of  clay  which  it  leaves  behind.  But  whoever  truly 
cares  for  the  one  will  also  care  for  the  other.  Who- 
ever follows  with  his  heart  the  friend  who  has  gone 
into  eternity  will  surely  have  some  regard  to  the 
place  where  that  friend's  remains  are  laid.  Why 
is  the  body  cared  for  ?  Is  it  not  because  it  has  been 
for  a  time  the  dwelling  of  the  soul  ?  This  reason 
will  be  sufficient  to  keep  any  one  who  values  the 
soul  from  treating  it  with  the  least  disdain.  Have 
you  not  known  how,  when  a  friend  departs,  every 
thing  that  has  been  connected  with  him  becomes 
consecrated  in  your  eyes  ?  The  letters  he  wrote,  the 
dress  he  wore,  the  books  he  read,  —  every  thing  is 


248  ADDRESS    AT    THE    CONSECRATION 

a  sacred  memorial  to  the  surviving.  Surely,  then, 
the  mortal  frame  which  the  soul  has  once  illumi- 
nated with  light  and  love,  —  the  mortal  frame,  where 
the  soul  has  beamed  from  the  eye,  breathed  from 
the  lips,  and  shone  like  a  glory  on  the  brow,  —  sure- 
ly the  remains  deserve  to  be  treasured ;  and  I  neither 
envy  nor  respect  the  man  who  can  treat  them  with 
light  regard. 

Do  you  say  that  this  feeling  grows  out  of  refine- 
ment ?  that  it  springs  from  cultivation,  not  from  na- 
ture ?  To  this  I  have  a  reply.  The  land  on  which 
we  dwell  was  possessed  by  a  different  race  two 
hundred  years  ago.  There  is  reason  to  believe  that 
their  camps  were  stationed  and  their  council-fires 
burned  on  a  part  of  this  very  ground.  That  wild 
race  was  never  equalled  by  any  civilized  people 
in  their  attachment  to  the  graves  and  the  memory 
of  their  fathers.  Was  this  refinement  in  them  ? 
Was  it  not  rather  a  natural  feeling,  which  all  their 
barbarism  had  never  been  able  to  extinguish  ? 

Let  me  ask,  too,  what  portion  of  a  civilized  com- 
munity manifest  this  feeling  in  its  greatest  strength  ? 
Is  it  the  refined,  as  they  are  called,  or  is  it  those 
who  are  more  true  to  nature  ?  Who  are  they  who 
make  it  so  dangerous  to  violate  the  grave  ?  Let  an 
insult  be  offered  to  the  tomb,  and  all  the  roughest 
elements  of  the  community  are  up  in  arms.  They 
say  that  the  living  can  protect  themselves  ;  but  they 
must  guard  the  slumbers  of  the  defenceless  dead. 
So  far  from  refinement  being  the  parent  of  these 
feelings,  it  rather  tends  to  weaken  and  destroy  them. 


OF    THE    SPRINGFIELD    CEMETERY.  249 

Silver  and  gold  may  be  refined  till  they  are  fit  for 
no  useful  purpose,  and  serve  only  for  ornament  and 
show  ;  and  so  man  may  be  refined  till  he  becomes 
cold  and  heartless,  —  till  all  generous  impulses  and 
affections  forsake  his  breast  for  ever. 

But  you  ask,  If  this  feeling  is  natural,  why  has  it 
not  done  more  to  improve  the  .outward  aspect  of  the 
grave  ?  I  answer,  this  is  the  province  of  taste  ;  and 
it  does  not  follow  that,  because  the  feeling  of  respect 
for  the  dead  is  strong,  it  shall  manifest  itself  in  this 
way  ;  though,  in  coming  days,  there  is  encourage- 
ment to  hope  that  it  will.  The  proper  taste  has 
been  inspired  ;  it  is  spreading  fast  and  far  ;  the  time 
is  not  distant,  when  Mount  Auburn,  which  for  years 
was  almost  alone,  will  be  the  mother  of  a  thousand 
fair  cities  of  the  dead.  It  is  not  so  now.  In  most 
parts  of  our  land,  the  burial-place  is  another  name 
for  desolation.  Its  walls,  if  it  have  any,  are  broken 
down  ;  its  monuments  are  leaning  with  neglect,  not 
with  age,  —  as  if  they  were  weary  of  bearing  inscrip- 
tions which  no  one  comes  to  read  ;  there  is  no  relief 
to  the  eye  but  the  rank  grass  in  summer,  and  the 
aster  and  golden-rod  in  autumn,  which  nature 
spreads  there  as  if  in  shame  for  the  living  and  com- 
passion for  the  dead.  In  such  places,  every  one 
feels  ashamed  of  his  race  ;  every  one  feels  that  the 
living  are  unjust  and  unworthy.  Why,  the  very 
dog,  who  has  been  faithful  to  his  master,  deserves  a 
more  honored  grave. 

And  now  let  me  say,  that  religion  strongly  tes- 
tifies to  the  power  of  this  natural  feeling.      If   I 


250  ADDRESS    AT    THE    CONSECRATION 

would  know  what  will  affect  the  human  heart,  the 
Bible  is  the  authority  to  which  I  go.  There  we 
find  it  written  that  God  determined  to  separate  the 
sons  of  the  patriarchs  as  a  peculiar  people.  They 
were  then  wanderers  by  habit  and  profession  ;  it 
was  necessary  that  they  should  give  up  their  roving, 
and  settle  quietly  down  in  the  limits  of  the  prom- 
ised land.  And  this  was  done.  Hard  as  it  is  to 
change  the  manners  of  a  people,  in  the  case  of  the 
Hebrews  this  was  so  thoroughly  done,  that  these 
hereditary  wanderers  became  renowned  through  all 
the  nations  for  the  depth  of  their  attachment  to 
their  father-land.  In  the  captivity,  by  the  rivers  of 
Babylon,  when  their  conquerors  respectfully  desired 
to  hear  their  far-famed  minstrelsy,  the  songs  of  Zion 
were  so  full  of  recollections  of  their  country,  that 
it  almost  broke  their  hearts  to  sing  them.  They 
hanged  their  harps  on  the  weeping  willows,  and 
could  not  strike  them  again.  Their  feeling  is  ex- 
pressed by  one  of  their  prophets,  in  the  words, 
"  Weep  not  for  the  dead,  neither  bemoan  him  ;  but 
weep  for  him  that  goeth  away  :  for  he  shall  return 
no  more,  nor  see  his  native  country." 

And  how  was  this  great  change  accomplished  ? 
It  was  done  by  means  of  this  feeling  of  respect  for 
the  dead.  It  was  done  by  anchoring  the  affections 
of  the  children  to  the  graves  of  their  fathers.  From 
the  earliest  ages,  all  who  dwelt  near  to  God  took 
an  interest  in  this  subject,  resolved  that  the  body, 
which  had  once  been  the  dwelling  of  the  soul, 
should  not,  like  common  dust,  be  trodden  under  foot 


OF    THE    SPRINGFIELD    CEMETERY.  251 

of  men.  When  Jacob  was  dying  in  Egypt,  he 
could  not  bear  the  thought  of  being  laid  to  rest  in 
the  distance  and  solitude  of  a  foreign  land.  Joseph, 
too,  bound  his  children  by  a  promise,  that  his  re- 
mains should  be  borne  to  the  sepulchre  of  his  fa- 
thers. This  feeling  grew  and  gained  strength  among 
them,  till  it  destroyed  all  inclination  to  wander,  — 
till  it  was  the  heart's  desire  and  prayer  of  the  dying 
Hebrew,  that  his  ashes  might  mingle,  dust  to  dust, 
with  his  own,  his  native  land. 

We  should  not  have  expected  to  find  the  true 
taste  in  times  so  ancient ;  nor  should  we  find  it  in 
any  except  the  patriarchs  and  those  whose  souls 
were  lighted  from  on  high.  But  we  do  trace,  in 
those  early  ages,  the  same  taste  which  now  begins  to 
prevail  among  ourselves,  —  the  same  desire  to  bring 
trees  and  flowers,  to  remove  the  dreariness  of  the 
place  of  death.  When  Abraham  bought  the  fields 
of  Machpelah  for  a  cemetery,  he  secured  the  right- to 
all  the  trees  that  were  in  it,  and  all  that  grew  on  its 
borders.  The  sepulchre  of  our  Saviour,  too,  was  in 
a  garden,  —  a  place  where  trees  spread  their  shade 
above,  and  flowers  breathed  incense  from  their  little 
urns  below,  —  a  place  not  distant  from  the  city,  and 
yet  not  so  near  that  the  noise  and  business  of  the 
living  should  disturb  the  silence  of  the  grave.  Not 
anticipating  that  their  Master  would  rise,  they  laid 
him  in  a  place  to  which  they  might  come  in  peace 
and  loneliness,  to  meditate  and  remember,  and  where 
pilgrims  in  after  times  might  resort,  to  be  strength- 
ened and  inspired  by  the  memory  of  that  great  friend 
of  man. 


252  ADDRESS    AT    THE    CONSECRATION 

The  religion  of  Jesus  tends  to  confirm  the  feeling 
of  which  I  speak.  It  gives  us  reason  to  believe  that 
the  departed  are  living,  —  gone  from  this  world,  in- 
deed, but  not  from  existence,  —  living  in  some  prov- 
ince of  creation,  where  it  is  not  given  us  to  know. 
If  it  be  so,  they  must  look  back  with  deep  interest 
on  all  the  scenes  through  which  they  travelled  in 
their  pilgrimage  below.  And  if,  from  their  bright 
abodes,  they  look  down  on  their  own  neglected 
graves,  must  there  not  be  sorrow  in  heaven  ?  But 
no !  sorrow  can  never  enter  to  disturb  the  untroubled 
calm  above.  Let  me  ask  rather,  Will  there  not  be 
joy  in  heaven  if  they  can  see  that  their  resting-place 
is  honored,  and  that  memorials  are  planted  there  by 
affectionate  hands  ?  It  will  assure  them,  not  merely 
that  they  are  remembered,  but  that  their  surviving 
friends  are  faithful,  both  to  the  dead  and  the  living, 
and  that  they  are  preparing  to  meet  them  in  their 
Father's  house  on  high. 

But  I  am  going  beyond  your  patience  and  my 
own  strength ;  I  will  therefore  bring  the  subject 
directly  home  to  ourselves. 

We  have  made  arrangements  to  leave  the  burial- 
place  of  our  fathers.  The  opening  of  that  small 
grave  yonder  was  the  act  by  which  we  bade  it  fare- 
well. We  have  done  it  from  necessity  and  not  from 
choice.  If  I  am  told  that  there  is  room  there  yet, 
I  answer,  it  is  true  ;  we  may  bury  our  dead  there 
if  we  will.  But  if  we  lay  our  heart's  treasure  there 
to-day,  the  stranger  may  be  laid  at  his  side  to-mor- 
row ;  and  thus  they  who  have  been  united  in  life 


OF    THE    SPRINGFIELD    CEMETERY.  253 

must  be  separated  in  death.     Surely  every  heart  will 
confess  that  it  ought  not  so  to  be. 

The  place  "  where  the  rude  forefathers  of  the 
hamlet  sleep  "  was  originally  chosen  with  true  taste 
and  feeling.  It  was  so  near  the  village,  that  the 
mourner  might  follow  his  dead  on  foot,  as  the 
mourner  should,  if  God  gives  him  strength  ;  at  the 
same  time  it  was  so  distant  as  to  leave  the  place  in 
silence  and  repose.  When  I  came  here,  twenty 
years  since,  it  was  my  favorite  resort,  at  morning, 
at  evening,  and  sometimes  at  midnight  hours.  It 
was  peaceful,  —  it  was  beautiful ;  on  one  side  the  eye 
wandered  over  the  two  spires,  which  were  all  that 
then  rose  in  the  village,  to  the  high  walls  of  the 
valley,  crowned  with  the  dark  pine  wood.  On  the 
other  side  it  fell  upon  the  bright  stream,  with  the 
green  fringe  upon  its  borders,  where  there  was  sel- 
dom even  a  dashing  oar  to  break  the  smoothness  of 
the  tide.  But  as  the  village  grew,  the  place  was 
changed.  The  sounds  of  busy  life  came  near  ;  the 
noise  of  men,  on  the  fields  and  the  waters,  was 
brought  into  painful  contrast  with  the  stillness  of 
the  grave.  And  now,  for  years,  we  have  heard  the 
quick  steps  of  improvement,  as  it  is  called,  tram- 
pling like  a  war-horse  round  it,  impatient  to  tread  it 
down.  When  Jerusalem  was  about  to  fall,  a  voice 
was  heard  at  midnight  in  the  temple,  saying,  —  "  Let 
us  depart  "  ;  and  when  I  have  been,  in  the  dead 
of  night,  at  the  place  of  which  I  speak,  it  required 
little  fancy  to  hear  a  voice  saying  to  the  sleepers,  — 
22 


254  ADDRESS    AT    THE    CONSECRATION 

"  Arise  and  depart,  for  this  is  not  your  rest ;  the  place 
where  the  living  buy  and  sell  is  no  longer  a  home 
for  you." 

Suffer  me  to  congratulate  you  now  on  the  success 
which  has  attended  this  enterprise  from  its  beginning 
to  the  present  hour.  Seven  years  since,  I  presented 
this  subject  to  all  whom  my  voice  could  reach.  I 
did  so  at  the  desire  of  a  daughter  of  this  village, 
who  was  deeply  interested  in  its  welfare  ;  but  before 
her  purpose  could  be  accomplished,  she  was  called 
away  ;  and  from  necessity  she  was  borne  to  the 
very  place  where  she  could  not  bear  that  the  re- 
mains of  her  friends  should  lie.  Last  year  another 
effort  was  made,  by  those,  whom,  if  they  were  not 
present,  I  might  name  with  the  praise  which  they 
deserve.  The  means  to  conduct  the  enterprise  have 
been  liberally  supplied  by  those  who  could  have  no 
hope  of  gain,  nor  even  requital  for  the  efforts  and 
sacrifices  they  made.  There  were  some  who  would 
have  selected  a  different  place  ;  but  with  that  gen- 
erosity which  it  is  more  common  to  hear  of  than  to 
see,  they  gave  up  their  own  preferences,  and  showed 
that  they  cared  for  nothing  but  the  general  good. 
Have  we  not  reason  to  hope  that  this  will  be  se- 
cured ?  Nature  has  made  this  place  beautiful,  and 
the  purpose  for  which  it  is  now  set  apart  will  make 
it  an  attractive  and  delightful  resort  in  every  state  of 
feeling,  —  to  the  sorrowful  and  the  happy,  to  the  aged 
and  the  young.  I  am  persuaded  that  nothing  has 
been  done   in   this  village   since  its  history  began, 


OF    THE    SPRINGFIELD    CEMETERY.  255 

which  will  tend  so  much  to  improve  and  refine  it, 
as  what  you  are  doing  now.  Observe  that  small 
fountain,  whose  sweet  voice  you  hear  !  It  gathers 
the  streams,  which  formerly  ran  unseen  through  the 
meadow,  and  lifts  them  up  to  the  eye  in  graceful 
silver  falls.  And  in  like  manner  this  place  and  this 
enterprise  will  assemble  streams  of  good  taste  and 
feeling  which  formerly  ran  to  waste,  and  from  them 
produce  results  which  shall  be  grateful  to  every  eye, 
and  inspiring  to  every  heart.  When  the  native  of 
this  town,  after  long  absence,  returns  to  the  home 
of  his  fathers,  he  will  walk  the  streets,  and  all  whom 
he  meets  there  will  be  strangers  ;  he  will  inquire 
concerning  familiar  dwellings,  and  the  names  of  their 
inhabitants  will  be  new  ;  when  he  meets  his  old 
acquaintance,  he  will  find  that  they  know  not  the 
Joseph  of  former  days.  He  will  be  forlorn  and 
solitary  among  the  living,  and  will  not  feel  at  home 
till  he  comes  to  the  mansions  of  the  dead.  Here 
he  will  find  the  guardians  and  the  playmates  of 
former  years  ;  here  will  be  all  whom  he  used  to 
reverence  and  love  ;  and  here  his  heart  will  over- 
flow with  emotions,  such  as  no  tongue  can  adequate- 
ly tell. 

Reflect  how  many  tenants  will  soon  be  here,  to 
claim  their  freehold  in  the  dust  below.  One  fair 
and  gentle  child  has  already  come,  —  a  fitting  herald 
to  take  possession  in  the  name  of  all  the  dead. 
Here  he  has  laid  himself  down  on  a  colder  pillow 
than  a  mother's  breast.     Many  such  will  soon  be 


256  ADDRESS    AT    THE    CONSECRATION 

here  —  morning  stars  quenched  in  the  brightness  of 
their  rising — before  they  have  known  the  stains  and 
sorrows  of  life  below.  Children,  in  tender  years,  will 
follow  their  parents  to  this  place ;  the  domestic  circle 
will  be  fearfully  broken,  and  thenceforth  the  wide 
world  will  be  their  home.  The  husband  will  follow 
the  wife,  —  the  light  and  joy  of  his  desolated  home  ; 
and  the  wife  the  husband,  on  whose  strong  arm  she 
had  hoped  to  lean  through  all  her  days.  The  young, 
sinking  under  the  slow  torture  of  wasting  disease, 
will  flee  away  and  be  at  rest  in  this  holy  ground  ; 
the  aged,  after  years  of  labor  and  sorrow,  will  depart 
to  this  place  in  peace.  The  pale  marbles  will  rise 
everywhere  around  us,  telling  of  the  dead,  some- 
times what  they  were,  but  still  oftener  what  they 
ought  to  have  been. 

We  are  here  to-day  to  consecrate  these  grounds. 
And  we  do  consecrate  them  in  the  name  of  "  Him 
that  liveth,  and  was  dead."  We  consecrate  them 
to  the  service  of  our  Heavenly  Father,  to  the  in- 
fluences of  his  Spirit,  to  the  kingdom  of  his  Son. 
We  consecrate  them  to  the  sacred  repose  of  the 
dead,  and  the  religious  improvement  of  the  living. 
We  consecrate  them  to  all  kind  affections,  to  heaven- 
ward hopes,  to  the  tears  of  love,  to  the  consolation 
of  grief.  We  consecrate  them  to  the  growth  of 
Christian  principles,  to  the  power  of  Christian  emo- 
tions. Heaven  has  made  it  a  land  of  streams  and 
fountains,  a  land  of  valleys  and  hills  ;  and  now  may 
a  stronger  and  deeper  interest  be  given  to  it  than 


OF    THE    SPRINGFIELD    CEMETERY.  257 

beauty  can  ever  bestow,  and  may  the  blessing  of 
God  be  upon  it  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of 
the  year ! 

But  when  we  consecrate  this  place  in  the  Sav- 
iour's name,  it  should  remind  us  of  the  promises  of 
the  Gospel.  Many  of  us  have  been  at  his  table,  to 
commemorate  his  dying  love,  to-day.  When  he  sat 
with  his  disciples  at  the  last  supper,  the  bread  and 
the  wine  passed  untasted  by  him  ;  he  said  that  he 
would  not  share  them  again  till  they  met  in  the 
kingdom  of  God.  So,  then,  happy  meetings  were 
yet  before  them,  and  that  parting  was  not  the  last. 
What  a  world  of  bright  promise  to  the  faithful  do 
those  simple  words  bestow  !  It  spreads  out  in  a 
thousand  forms  of  hope,  each  one  of  which  is  a 
ray  of  glory  to  some  afflicted  heart.  The  mother, 
for  example,  —  the  Rachel  weeping  for  her  children, 
but  not  refusing  to  be  comforted,  because  she  has 
surrendered  them  to  her  Father  and  their  Father,  to 
her  God  and  their  God,  —  she  may  lift  up  her  eyes 
and  look  forward  to  the  time  when  she  shall  go  to 
those  who  cannot  return  to  her,  —  when  they  shall 
be  the  first  to  meet  her  at  heaven's  gate,  and  with 
bright  and  glad  voices  bid  her  welcome  to  their 
own  happy  home. 

"  O,  when  the  mother  meets  on  high 
The  babe  she  lost  in  infancy,  — 

Hath  she  not  then,  for  all  her  fears, 
The  day  of  woe,  the  sleepless  night, 

For  all  her  sorrows,  all  her  tears, 
An  over-payment  of  delight?  " 


258  ADDRESS    AT    THE    CONSECRATION 

But  the  hour  is  wasting ;  I  see  by  the  lengthening 
shadows  that  the  sun  is  sinking  low.  I  see  that 
some,  who,  when  I  began  to  speak,  were  in  the  sun- 
shine, are  now  in  the  evening  shade.  And  some, 
who  are  now  in  the  full  sunshine  of  prosperity  and 
gladness,  will  soon  be  covered  with  the  awful  shad- 
ow of  death.  We  shall  soon  leave  this  ground,  — 
never  again  thus  to  assemble,  till  we  meet  in  the 
dust  below.  The  day  is  going  down  ;  the  darkness 
of  night  will  soon  settle  on  these  hills  and  vales. 
The  season  is  declining  ;  the  red  leaf  is  already 
hung  as  a  signal  from  the  tree,  and  the  winds  of 
autumn  will  soon  be  heard  singing  their  vesper- 
hymn.  The  year  is  waning  ;  the  trumpet  of  the 
winter  storms  will  soon  be  sounded ;  they  will  sweep 
through  these  leafless  woods,  and  rash  and  howl 
over  the  habitations  of  death.  Let  us  feel,  then, 
for  it  is  true,  that  every  fading  year,  every  fall  of 
the  leaf,  every  closing  day,  and  every  toll  of  the 
funeral  bell  is  measuring  our  dead  march  to  the 
grave. 

Let  us  prepare,  then,  since,  prepared  or  not,  we 
must  go.  Let  us  have  the  only  preparation  that 
can  avail  us  in  the  dying  hour.  Let  us  "  so  number 
our  days  as  to  apply  our  hearts  unto  wisdom."  Let 
us  say  to  Him  who  made  us,  —  "  The  grave  cannot 
praise  thee  ;  death  cannot  celebrate  thee  ;  but  the 
living,  the  living,  he  shall  praise  thee  as  we  do 
this  day."  May  we  so  spend  our  days  in  his  ser- 
vice, that,  in  the  hour  which  is  not  far  from  any 


OF    THE    SPRINGFIELD    CEMETERY.  259 

one  of  us,  we  may  look  forward  with  hopes  full 
of  immortality  ;  and  when  the  cares  of  this  short 
life  are  over,  through  Him  who  lived,  and  labored, 
and  died  upon  the  cross  to  save  us,  may  we  serve 
him  in  nearer  presence  and  with  angels'  powers  on 
high  ! 


THE      END. 


